


Is There A Word For the Epilogue After the Epilogue, Bro

by silverbirch



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverbirch/pseuds/silverbirch
Summary: Scenes ofawkwardnessdomestic blissbetween two dads, a quartet of children, and a cul-de-sac that really doesn't make any sense whatsoever.





	1. This is Your Brain on College

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fulldaysdrive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulldaysdrive/gifts).



> Contains big, fat **spoilers** for _Dream Daddy_ , I guess, but I feel like you, my reader, as a discerning person chock full of literacy could probably figure out that A), you can romance Craig, and B), it's the hottest goddamn thing. 
> 
> Seriously make ten thousand sequels to this game, developers, and also I want a Telltale Studios stand-alone about Val being a beautiful, deadly lesbian who solves crimes in Portland with the aid of her _crazy hot witch powers_.
> 
> I have tried to keep the Dadsona as general as possible, but if you want the full Silverbirch experience, imagine that he has a heinous purple Sinead O'Connor haircut, glasses, and all-white clothes that probably make Amanda want to fling herself into traffic from embarrassment when he visits her at Expensive Art School.
> 
> Oh, Spoiler. Amanda gets into Expensive Art School. Unless you are a terrible father. In which case she gets implants and becomes a cocktail waitress at the Maple Bay Dog Track and ends up marrying Ernest. True story.

"It's really..." I say brightly, trying to be Supportive. I struggle to find something nice to say about Amanda's new home for the next ten months. Nothing is coming to me. The sentence just dangles there, orphaned and alone, like a kitten in a tree.

"It's small, dad. You can say it's small," Amanda says, looking around.

"That wasn't what I was going to say. I was going to say..." oh god, another conversational dead end. 

"Tiny?" she suggests.

"Microscopic," I say.

"Itty-bitty."

"Itsy-bitsy."

"Infinitesimal."

"Damn, Manda-Panda. You've been in college fifteen minutes and listen to that vocabulary." 

Amanda does a deep curtsy. She's obviously been spending too much time with Damien. It's a very sarcastic curtsy, so she's obviously been spending too much time with me. 

"And it's not  _that_ small," I say, looking around, "I mean, once we get your dresser in here, there's gonna be at least like, six square feet for you to put all your stuff."

"I have a roommate, dad."

"Oh, right," I say. "Okay...zero square feet."

We begin to unload some of the boxes. We begin with the knick-nacks, because she and I are both lazy and heavy lifting is what I have Craig for. 

I find a picture of her, maybe four or five, half-buried in the folds and enormous sleeves of the green combat jacket she's wearing even now. Alex and I are squatting on either side of her, me squinting into the camera flash, Alex laughing his ass off at the expression on Amanda's face; she's  _clearly_ impersonating him. She's got her jaw squared and her eyes narrowed to slits. Alex's voice had been deep; Amanda could wriggle her way out of any toddler misdeed by going all bass and saying "SORRY DADDY" like a tiny, conniving James Earl Jones. 

Have I mentioned fuck cancer? Fuck cancer.

"I love that picture," Amanda says, putting it prominently on the scarred, ancient wooden desk that the college has thoughtfully provided in exchange for many tens of thousands of my dollars. 

I'm trying (and failing miserably) not to get choked up. 

"He'd be so proud of you," I manage without unmanning myself completely.

"Thanks dad," Amanda slings an arm around my waist, leans her head on my shoulder. Whatever I did to deserve her as my daughter, it must have been _super_ heroic. 

 "He'd be proud of you, too," Amanda said. She nods out the window, where down below Craig seems to be attempting to sling her dresser over his back and carry it himself. Up four flights of stairs. Five, counting the concrete steps from the parking lot. Several people are watching in disbelief.

 Alex had said all the right things, during his decline.  _I don't want you to be alone,_ that figured prominently.  _You deserve to find someone_. Then he'd died and I just...hadn't. It hadn't seemed like a long time, ever, until suddenly I woke up and I was forty and Amanda was graduating and I could, sometimes, go an entire day without thinking about him. 

"I should write a book," I said, trying to keep it light. " _How to Get a Boyfriend in Eleven Easy Years."_

"Should we like...help him?" 

"No," I say decisively, putting an arm around her. Team Wynne, us against the world. Or at least on a couch together, eating pizza rolls and making fun of the world. That is more our speed.

"I really feel like we should help him."

"Go ahead, I'm not stopping you," I say. "But remember how he got so stir crazy during the drive he tried doing squats in the back seat? This is good for him."

"I still say we should have strapped him to the roof. He could, like, do situps."

There comes a knock on the door. A short, round girl with violently blue hair pokes her head into the room.

"Hi, Amanda?"

"Hi! Dad, this is Delphine. My new roommate." Amanda disengages herself from me and goes over to give this Delphine person an exuberant hug. 

"It's nice to meet you eye are ell," Delphine said, and I can only report what I hear, because it makes  _zero_ sense to me. "Now, important question: are you into dudes?"

"Not in front of her father she isn't," I said, on spinal reflex. Delphine ignores me, as though I am a piece of furniture. 

"Yes...?" Amanda says cautiously.

"Then you've  _got_ to come downstairs," Delphine says, grabbing Amanda by the wrists and dragging her towards the door. "Because there's like, this perfect slab of Asian DILF outside and he's currently doing push-ups with a dresser on his back."

The conversation suffers a slight hiatus as my daughter and myself attempt to die of embarrassment. Sadly, we are not successful.

"Amanda," I manage.

"Yes dad?" she asks.

"What is...what is DILF."

"Dad I'd like to, um, Friend. Like...on Instagram."

"You're lying to spare my brain, right? You're a good daughter." 

Delphine, through a haze of self-absorption, seems to register that her remark went unappreciated. 

"What?" she asks. 

"Um, the Asian... _gentleman_ down there is, uh, my dad's boyfriend." 

"Oh," Delphine says. "Oh.  _Oh._ Wow, that's like, super hot."

"Fnergh," I say intelligently. 

"He must be a Viking in the sack," Delphine says, eyeing me avidly.

"Amanda," I say plaintively. 

"Come on Delphine, let's, uh, go check out the cafeteria," Amanda says. "My dad has to...run away and join the circus." 

"Or drive into oncoming traffic, whichever is quicker," I call out as she steers Delphine away. Delphine is still asking all kinds of questions about Craig, questions that only me, Smashley and Craig's GP would be in any position to answer.

"Kids these days," I say weakly to the empty room. 

 

 <><><>

 

 "Everything hurts," I moan. 

"I'm the one who carried the dresser, bro," Craig says. We're back at the motel, on a bed that provides all the lumbar support of a concrete slab. I don't care, because we're together on the bed, Craig is shirtless, and I'm...I'm way too short to be the big spoon to Craig, but at any rate I'm nestled against his back, parasitizing his warmth. He always sets the AC to frigid. 

"All those stairs," I say, worming my cold hands under the waistband of Craig's sweatpants. 

"Ack! Dude!"

"This is what you implicitly agreed to when we started dating," I say, reasonableness itself. "You agreed to warm my cold-ass hands and my cold-ass toes. It's in the contract and everything."

"I will buy you some  _mittens_ ," Craig said, and I swear, the room noticeably lights up as he grins, even though I can't see his face.

"Naw," I say into his neck. "I'm good."

He sighs, a long, relaxed and contented sound. I like that sound. It makes me feel like...I don't know. Maybe like I actually do something for him? Like I might...actually be good for him?

It's good, so good, being there with him. There'd been...attempts, after Alex died. I'd meet a guy and think  _well what the fuck_ and try. But it was always...unpleasant, or brief, or stupid, or meaningless, and it never went anywhere. Flings and one-night stands, including that time with Robert I have a really hard time remembering.  _Those_ just always made me feel like shit. This...this is just...comfortable. I feel safe. I feel...cared for. It's downright eerie. 

"My daughter's roommate thinks you're hot."

"Huh?" he says, baffled. 

"Yeah. I got to hear  _all_ about it. Also she thinks you're a sexual Viking."

"Huh. Smart kid," Craig says, arcing his back against me. 

"College," I say.

"College, bro."

"Do you remember our first kiss?"

"What, in the tent? Yeah man," Craig says, voice warm.

I smirk, I'll admit it. "That wasn't the first." 

"What?"

"I wondered if you remembered," I say, chuckling to myself. 

"Spill," he says, rolling over. "Was I  _awake_ for this?"

"Yes!" I say, wounded. "You were totally shitfaced, though."

"You took advantage of your drunk roomie?" Craig says, obviously amused. "Not cool, bro. Not cool."

"Oh, right, like it was  _my_ idea," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Oh god," Craig says, squeezing his eyes shut. "It was Smashley's idea, wasn't it."

"Of course it was," I say, remembering. "Of course it was..."

 

<><><>

 

Ahh, the 90's. When being gay wasn't okay, when you'd get invited to parties as a novelty, like a clown or a magician. I only went to that godawful frat house because Craig dragged me and Smashley told me that her hot classmate Alex would be there, and I should, like,  _totally_ meet him. 

Naturally he wasn't there, so I held up a wall, drinking shit-ass beer and answering the same questions over and over again.

Craig was in his element. Now, you understand, I wasn't in love with him then. I really liked him, he was basically my first and best real friend. He was handsome, even before he decided to bench-press himself into physical perfection. I was... _aware_ of that, really. But I didn't like him that way. At least, not much. Post AIDS, you get me? If I so much as coughed everyone would look at me with raw panic on their faces. Craig would throw an arm around my shoulder, fist-bump, hug me, ruffle my hair. It was the most physical contact I'd ever gotten from a man who wasn't my dad. 

Ahem. Anyway. 

Craig got dared to kiss me, because  _of course_ he did. Kegstand Craig (which, really, why wasn't he just called  _Craigstand?_ But nobody clears these things with me, so) never turned down a dare. 

It wasn't much of anything. Just a peck of the lips, but everyone hooted like the dumbass drunken monkeys they were, and Craig got handed like, seven more beers. Smashley met my eyes over the crowd, and mouthed  _sorry._  I shook my head because honestly, not that big a deal.

I wasn't any too sober, and neither was Smashley. We still ended up with Craig between us, crooning Letters to Cleo with his head drooping and his feet dragging on the ground. I was even scrawnier back then, and Smashley's about five foot two, so we had our hands full, literally and figuratively. Our dorm was on the sixth floor, and we managed to get him sort of propped up against the wall of the world's slowest goddamn elevator. 

"Sorry about that stupid dare," Smashley said, shaking her head. "Wasn't my idea."

"Feh," I said, ignoring the potent blast of Craig's whiskey-breath and his really garbled rendition of  _Cruel to be Kind._ Perhaps his taste in drunk karaoke should have been my first hint that Craig was not the 100% arrow-straight dynamo of heteronormativity I had always assumed him to be. Hindsight. 

"I know you're not a party guy."

"Didn't you hear? Gay guys know, like, all the best parties," I gushed, mimicking the ninth stupid thing that had been said to me. 

"Pfft. Again, sorry."

"It's really okay. Really. Hardly even counted."

"Yeah, and Alex didn't show up. You didn't get anything out of the evening."

"I got the world's lamest kiss, don't forget," I said genially. Smashley laughed. We really liked each other. I hope we still do, under the circumstances, but...

"Hm," Smashley said, getting that uncomfortable glint in her eye. In hindsight, I can see the embryonic beginnings of the absolutely flesh-eating criminal prosecutor she ended up being. Criminals probably accepted plea-bargains just to get her to stop looking at them like a carnivore window-shopping at a crippled animal shelter. 

"I don't like that look, Smash."

"Why? She pretty," Craig chimed in helpfully. 

"Thank you, love."

" _Sho_ pretty," Craig said, before launching into something that might have been  _YMCA,_ but in Cantonese. 

"I just think you should get something out of the evening besides a lame kiss," Smashley said, and I'm flat out deer-in-the-headlights by that point. 

"I wouldn't-"

"Craig," she said, and  _man_ , I had never heard that tone from her before. Her voice cracked out like a whip; I was tormented by sudden images of leather bustiers and fluffy handcuffs. 

"Yeah?" Craig said, head swiveling up like a dog coming to point. 

"Kiss him," Smashley said imperiously, pointing at me.

"'Kay," Really Ridiculously Drunk Craig said happily. 

"Um, I have an objec-" and then it turned out I didn't, because Craig was  _on_ me. I somehow ended up pressed against the wall of the elevator, the heat of Craig's body all along mine. This was not a peck on the lips, because he went straight to tongue. It tasted like a really not appetizing mixture of sour mix and pizza rolls, but what the hell. He...knew what he was doing. 

Okay, so. Awkward. Crossing lines. Bro boundaries. Possibly low-key sexual assault. But when you're a really sexually frustrated slightly drunk gay 19 year old and there's a hot dude kissing you, you kiss him back. Craig's  _hands_ , for god's sake. They weren't wandering, exactly, but they weren't staying put, either. Ditto for his hips, pressed against mine. If this was what it was like for them all the time, I suddenly understood why Smashley, straight A student and Student Council goddess, put up with his shit. 

The  _ding_ from the elevator arriving on our floor broke us out of the...whatever the hell that was. Smashley disengaged us by the simple expedient of grabbing Craig by the belt and yanking him backwards. Craig still had his doofus grin on his face, even though his lower lip was swollen. Yikes. I guess I got a bit, uh, into it.

"Goodnight, boys," Smashley said wickedly, pushing Craig out of the elevator. It closed on her giggles. 

I managed to get him back to the room without much difficulty; it was close to the elevator. I deposited him, fully clothed and shoed, on his bed, and turned towards my own with a sigh of longing. 

"Hey bro?" Craig called as I stripped down to my boxers and got into bed.

"Yes, Craig?" I said, patiently.

"That was fuckin' gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay," he said, and he giggled for awhile before he finally passed out.

It took me awhile to get to sleep. I admit it.

 

<><><>

 

"That never happened," Craig says emphatically. 

"Totally did."

"You're just sharing like, your dirty college wank fantasy," Craig says with real conviction. 

"My dirty college wank fantasy was about Harrison Ford, don't flatter yourself," I say. "You didn't remember?"

"Obviously not, bro." 

"It happened. I swear to God."

Craig squints at me, then rolls over to grab his phone on the nightstand. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Gathering evidence," Craig says, dialing. "hey Smash. How are the girls? Good, good. Briar and Hazel finish their book reports?"

This went on for awhile. One of the things I love about Craig: we're both fathers. We love each other, but Craig knows that if the situation required it, I'd steal both his kidneys and leave him in a bathtub full of ice cubes for Amanda. He'd do the same. 

"So m'man over here says you once made us kiss after a party. I say bullshit."

Craig listens for a bit. I can hear Smashley's gleeful cackle from here. 

"She says that happened, and it was, like, the hottest fuckin' thing," Craig says. "Wonder why I don't remember it."

"Gay panic," I hear Smashley say right as I say "Sexual repression."

"Yeah, he's here," Craig glances at me, uncertain. "she...uh, wants to talk to you."

Smashley and I have...avoided seeing one another. It isn't hard, mostly she's fly-by-night, picking up or dropping off the kids. I have contrived to never be around when this happens. Craig is not particularly sensitive to nuance, so I don't think he's noticed. Smashley is, and probably has.

"Sure," I say cautiously, taking the phone. I put it on speaker. 

"'Sup, homewrecker," Smashley's dear, husky voice says. I'm abruptly  _so_ glad to talk to her. A voice from my past. 

"Smashley, you guys got divorced like...a year before I turned up."

"That's one way to tell the story. Guess which one I prefer," Smashley says with a wicked little laugh. 

"Ashby Wynne, husband stealing slut demon. I like it."

"Lock up your sons!" Smashley says. "Do we need to go through the awkward-as-shit conversation where I tell you there will be no hair pulling or eye gouging from me?"

"Naw. Skip it for now."

"Good. Because I'm...actually pretty fucking weirded out by this whole situation, but I'm glad he's happy. Are _you_ happy?" Smashley says, a little uncertain. 

"Yeah, actually. I am," I say, as Craig puts a hand on my shoulder, and very obligingly gives it a squeeze. 

"Good," Smashley says. "...good."

"We should grab a drink, when you drop the kids off. Just you and me. Catch up." 

A surprised pause, then Smashley says, "I'd love that. Yeah. Sure. I can give you all the good blackmail. For instance, if he ever gets uppity, just put on that Jim Henson memorial song, you know,  _A Boy and His Frog_ , and he will cry like a little bitch."

"Hey now," Craig says, looking worried.

"Seriously?" I ask, delighted. "I mean, what I usually do is get him two beers and watch  _Return of the Jedi._ He really  _really_ likes the Ewoks. I can give him shit for _days._ "

"Jub jub," Smashley says. "Have you ever seen what happens when he eats anything spicier than ketchup-"

A brief fight for the phone ensues, Smashley's tinny laughter coming from the speaker as Craig clambers on top of me and wrestles the phone from my hand. I'm pinned under his body, and his eyes are starting to burn. 

"He'll call you back," Craig growls, and turns the phone off, which is about it for speech for awhile.

Some time later - rather a long time, Delphine is crass, not _wrong_ \- as we lay concussed, intertwined in a bed whose box spring will probably never recover, I say:

"Hey Craig,"

"Yeah bro?" He says a little blearily.

"That was fuckin' gaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy-" I don't manage to finish before Craig is attempting to smother me, or at least my cackles, with a pillow. 


	2. Branding Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinks with the Christiansens; on a scale from "awkward small talk" to "surprise halloween cult ending" how uncomfortable was your evening, Mr. Wynne?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole fic is marked 'mature' but this one is _slightly_ more explicit than my norm.
> 
> Credit to the lovely **fulldaysdrive** for Mary's nickname.

It's only been a month since Amanda left, and I am already desperate. 

You wouldn't think I would be, oh no. Sure, I work from home. Sure, Craig's daughters have school. But the trouble is Craig's always  _with_ them, tutoring or teaching or volunteering or simply standing in the middle of a classroom, drenched in waves of estrogen and being buried under piles of hurled schoolteacher panties. Not that I'm jealous. I'm just...concerned. 

Even when he's not there, there's River to consider, and even though she's still at the blob stage I feel her little brown eyes on me everywhere. Even as a toddler, I sense the killer instincts of Smashley within her. Watching me with silent judgment, that time I blew up the coffee maker, or accidentally put rhubarb leaves in a smoothie for Craig because I mistook them for kale.  _That_ was a fun trip to the emergency room.

She finds me wanting. I know it. Briar and Hazel see me as a handy piggyback ride alternate and purveyor of frozen treats, but River isn't fooled. River sees all.

At any rate, I'm pretty certain that watching or even merely hearing her father having sex will turn her into a serial murderer, or at the very least a future contestant on  _Sixteen and Pregnant: Ultimate Battle Dome_ , which is trashy and exploitative programming I _totally_  do not watch, and which the third season of is currently not sitting on my porch in an Amazon box. Smashley has already made it clear that as the newest parental figure, she will blame any of her daughter's future neck tattoos, below-the-ear piercings or unacceptable sexual partners on me.

So: yes. I'm filled with...a certain ardor. My animus has become pent up. I find myself longing for... Oh, screw the Damienesque euphemisms, I'm hornier than a teen goat who just got out of prison and I really, desperately  _need_  Craig to bang me like a trash can lid until the cows come home to find the front door locked because Craig still isn't done. 

It's so embarrassing. Years,  _years_ where periodically eye-banging the sweet husky lad on  _Parks and Recreation_ seems more than sufficient and all of a sudden I've reset to being thirteen years old. Watching him eat an organic, 100% natural fruit juice popsicle with the team after a softball game the other day seemed like the filthiest thing imaginable. There should be laws, Craig.  _Laws._ Please, God, think of the children.

But the stars have aligned. Smashley and the kids are off to Grandma's. Amanda is off at school. I have a chicken simmering in the crock pot, an episode of  _Real Dance Moms of Svalbard_ on the DVR. So where am I, you ask? Are Craig and I curled up on the couch, necking like teenagers? Are we in bed, making sweet, diffusely-lit Hallmark Channel love? Is he bending me over the sturdiest table in the house and railing me like the fate of the world, nay, the universe, depends on it?

Respectively: no, sadly no and ha ha ha  **ha** no. Instead, we are at the Christiansens, enjoying the company of jesus_boi69, the Children of the Corn, Pre-pubescent Boo Radley and Suburban Cersei Lannister. Oh, sorry, I mean Joseph, his lovely wife, and his freak kids. I mean, his charming young ones. Yes. That is...what I mean.

Okay, okay, I'm being unfair. I like Joseph, kinda. Mary has grown on me quite a bit (Damien  _adores_ her, and I haven't figured out of she watches out for Robert or Robert watches out for her...) and the kids, well, they're weird, but my daughter at eleven blew her allowance every week on arcane camera accessories so what the hell do I know about childhood normalcy?

Nothing against the Christiansens, nothing at all, except I dimly remember Alex being of the opinion that men shouldn't wear pastels unless they're Southern Baptist preachers presiding over an Easter Egg hunt. Nothing at all against them as I sit in their kitchen, making small talk (do you know what it's like making small talk with a couple with communication issues? It is _microscopic talk_ ) and drinking a way-too-strong concoction that an already noticeably askew Mary made with the total concentration of a veteran drunk. Joseph is a bit blotto, I'm getting there, but Craig drinks maybe one beer a week until someone figures out how to brew vodka out of goji berries. Then he'll be like 100% of all other adults, incapable of being in the presence of another human without a BAC of 0.04 or more. 

Joseph is opening up a bit, talking about the upcoming summer's missionary trip to Ecuador. It's interesting, actually, and I give him real props: his church trips seem to be heavy on the charity, light on the proselytizing. 

"You should have seen him the first year," Mary says, eyes glinting. "He got  _so_ sunburned."

Joseph laughs. "You know how they tell you to wear sunblock even when it's cloudy?"

I'm half Pakistani, so...no, actually, but I nod. See? I have social graces _coming out of my ass._  

"Well, it turns out to be an even better idea when you're at thirteen thousand feet."

I winced. 

"Peeling for weeks. He gave all the church ladies quite a fright," Mary says.

"What do you use, bro? SPF 9000?" Craig says, laughing. 

"The kids always have a great time," Joseph says. "Say, if Amanda comes home for the summer, you should see if she wants to go."

"You do know she'd spend the whole time taking pictures instead of digging wells, right?"

"I had assumed."

"I'll see if she's interested," I say. 

Craig drags me out a lot. Left to my own devices, I would gladly stay planted on my couch, waiting patiently for Craig to come over or Amanda to call. Now that Amazon delivers groceries, I foresee a bright and glorious future where I never have to leave my living room. Such bliss. 

"Mary," I say suddenly, having noticed a change. "I can't help noticing on your little map of the neighborhood..."

"Mm?" Mary says, fixing me with her gimlet stare. I can feel her amusement lurking just under the surface.

"I can't help but notice..." I saw, squinting a bit for effect.

"Yes, Ashby?"

"Why is my house labeled 'Casa de Brojob?' All of a sudden?"

Mary says nothing, just takes another pointed slurp of her drink, Joseph reddens very slightly, and Craig...well, Craig bursts out laughing, getting up and throwing his arms around Mary. Sweet  _Jesus_ , the look on her face. I might need to start hugging her more often. 

I feel sorry for Joseph, I really do, even as I can't help but notice that his eyes are lingering on the inches of Craig's flat stomach exposed as he stretches into a rib-cracking yawn. I say as much to Craig, as we walk back to my place. 

"What, you think he was checking me out?" Craig says, looking puzzled; why would anyone check  _him_ out, the expression seems to say. If Craig had the faintest idea what he looked like, he'd be a monster. If  _l_ looked that good, I'd be a goddamned supervillain. The earth would burn. 

"Yeah," I say. "Dude's a total closet case. Super gay. I would dare go so far as to say  _ultra_ gay."

"You think everyone is into dudes, though."

"I do not!" I protest. "Not everyone _in the world,_ or anything crazy like that! Just...everyone who happens to live on this cul-de-sac. Seriously. It's like some kind of horny gay dad nexus."

"What, even Brian?"

"ESPECIALLY BRIAN."

I have asked Craig, you know. Not right away, but I worked up the nerve to ask him. You know, the charming chestnut  _so...dudes, huh?_ Since we've been together, he's shown exactly zero interest in other women, or other men. So while he was still groggy from the accidentally poison smoothie, I asked him. 

 _It's...bro, other than my kids I've...like...grown-up loved two people in my whole life,_ Craig said  _one of them is Smashley and one of them is you. Can we talk about something else?_

I'm smooth, alright. Reeeeeeal smooth. 

"You're imagining things, bro," Craig says pleasantly.

"Am not," I mutter darkly. Craig, his arm around my shoulder, gives me a squeeze. 

Finally, it happens. I've got Craig, the episode is ready to play, the crock pot...probably shouldn't be smoking quite that much, but what the hell, and I've got the door latched against any possible intrusion by police or nosy neighbor children or Earnest trying to steal more of my silverware or Brian, dropping by the demonstrate how much better he is at having sex with my boyfriend than me. God, I hate Brian. 

Craig...rolls with the punches. So when it turns out that the chicken is not just smoking but actively on fire, he manages to get it into the sink and turn on the tap, pulling the battery out of the fire alarm. He pours us a couple of protein shakes once we've gotten, uh, most of the smoke out of the house, and we adjourn to the living room. It turns out I'd misprogrammed the TV, so instead of  _Dance Moms_ it recorded six hours worth of a K-drama that seems to be about beautiful, androgynous boy-children fighting Satan with the power of eyeliner. I don't speak Korean. 

Again, he's cool with it. He turns the tv off and we get down to business: serious, heavy, teen-style makeouts. It's too bad drive-ins don't exist anymore. He tastes like protein shake, but that's practically par for the course, because he always tastes like protein shakes. He practically sweats creatine. It's aggressive and rough and just this side of a wrestling match and much,  _much_ better than the long ago girlfriend-mandated kiss in the elevator, because he's not shitty drunk and I've learned a thing or twelve since then. 

Time to step things up. I slide down the couch, settling with my knees on the floor, crouched between his spread legs. He groans, loud, throwing his head back, as I run my fingernails over his quads, scratching ever so slightly through the denim. The groan goes all stuttery as I nuzzle against him, feeling him get hard, letting my hot breath seep through the fabric. Craig Junior clearly approves; thank god denim is such a stretchy material, is all I can say. I know of the stereotypes about Asian men (oh yeah, isn't it great, when you're a historically oppressed sexual minority, why not spice things up with  _racism!_ Way to go, gay community, way to go) but, uh, they're not true in Craig's case. At all. Our first time, it was all I could do not to sing  _Sweet Mystery of Life_ , a la  _Young Frankenstein._

Goddamnit, why doesn't he just wear jeans with a zipper? Six buttons? _Six_? If I wanted to do linear algebra during sex I would have dated Hugo, damn it! I finally undo the last button, and then I realize why.

"I can't believe you went commando to Joseph's house," I say, and Craig hisses through his teeth as I wrap my hand around him. 

"It's good for you. Air flow," he manages. "Now, for fuck's sake, dude-" 

He puts a hand on the top of my head and gently, uh, urges me downward. 

I laugh evilly. I'm about to get to business when I notice Craig's chest is hitching suspiciously; I haven't even  _started_ yet, and I'm good but I'm not  _seizure_ good. It takes me a moment to realize he's laughing. 

"Excuse me?" I ask, and Craig looks at my face and starts busting up even more. I scowl, waiting for him to stop. Finally, I tighten my grip and give him a yank, and not a nice one either.

"Ack!" Craig says, several octaves high, but it manages to settle him. He's still grinning, though, and Craig Junior has...lost his focus. 

"Explain," I say, pseudo-patiently. 

"Nothing, nothing!" He says, and he looks like he's going to start giggling again.

I'm...a little hurt, honestly? I think Craig picks up on that, because he manages to contain himself. 

"It's not you, bro, it's just...you were uh, about to give me a brojob. Bro," and the ingrate starts laughing again, practically in tears. 

For a moment, I contemplate the logistics of getting revenge on Mary. For one, she's meaner than I am. For two, all I can think of is seducing her husband, and I'm pretty sure I'd have nightmares about his giant veneers chewing off the back of my head to get at my sweet juicy brain if I bottomed for him. For three, Robert.

Sweet holy Jesus, Robert.

"Welp," I say, once it's become clear that the moment is officially dead. I'm trying not to be irritated, sad and blue-balled all at once, but my brain seems to be telling me it's gonna be two out of three no matter what. I settle for annoyed and sexually frustrated. 

"Bro, bro," Craig says.

"Don't 'bro' me," I mutter.

"Sorry."

"Oh for-it's fine. Really," and it is, mostly. If this is what a bad moment with Craig is like, it sets a pretty high bar. 

Craig leans forward and kisses me. Then he backs up, and sniffs a little bit.

"Ah, bro? Think you need to take a shower. You smell kinda smokey." 

Okay, really, so what's the worse Robert could do to me if I decided to declare war on Mary? Come into my house in the dead of night, slit my throat, whittle my bones into wind chimes and send them to Amanda. Oh right. 

"I...fine, okay," I sigh, standing up. 

"Sorry bro. Wasn't being clear. I think  _we_ need to take a shower." 

"Oh," I say, trying to make it clear that this has not mollified me.

"I saw a smile," he says, grinning at me.

"You did not," I say, fighting to keep my lips level.

 "I sawwww a smiiiiiiiiillllle."

The evening turns out...pretty wonderful, actually, and it turns out the k-drama show is amazing; not knowing anything that's happening doesn't seem to dim its sparkle. After the shower, I discover that Craig secretly ordered from my favorite Chinese take-out place, and had it delivered. It's approximately ten thousand percent of his daily intake of...everything, so I have mercy on him and make him a salad.

Me, a couch, Craig, neon-colored sweet and sour pork, and it turns out there's sixteen seasons of  _Magic Boy Explosion Venture Initiative,_ so...life seems like it might be pretty good, for now.

I do plan on anonymously signing Joseph up for a year's subscription to  _Men's Health_ , though. Just because. 

 


	3. Outpatient Care

"So I know what your dad _usually_ serves for breakfast," I say conspiratorially. Other than monthly Bro-Brunch, breakfast in the Cahn household is the most depressing thing in the universe. Grains and pulses, leafy greens,  _fiber._ Not a dusting of powdered sugar or bed of hash browns in sight. Madness.  _Madness._

"Wholesome Bran Flakes," Hazel and Briar chorus in unison. Craig has an early meeting and an early doctor's appointment, so I volunteered to get the twins ready for school. I am using this as an opportunity to bribe them, because I missed my calling as a white collar criminal. 

 _Wholesome Bran Flakes._ Digestively useful and suuuuuuuuuuuper healthy, they come in a box that looks like it contains a Victorian laundry phosphate, smell like sawdust and taste like something intangible. Like despair, possibly, or maybe a Wordsworthian (got stuck talking to Hugo at a picnic) melancholy over the end of childhood. I wouldn't serve them to sex offenders in jail. 

"In the Wynne household, we usually go for something a bit more...colorful," I say, holding aloft a box of Amanda's favorite cereal,  _Chocolate Blasted Fruit Grenades._ The box features multicolored ninjas dancing with what seems to be lewd and whorish abandon, along with a discreetly placed FDA label advising that children ascertain their family's predisposition to diabetes before eating. 23 and Me, kids, it's a whole new world out there.

Hazel's eyes go wide, as though she's seen the face of God. Briar makes a high pitched squeal, though she's gone completely still. 

"Say I'm your favorite," I say, because shame is overrated.

"You're my favorite," Hazel says instantly, heartless child.

"You're the best, Ashby!" Briar says, eyes wide and throbbing with sincerity. I've watched her mother cadge free drinks, so I am not fooled by this, though I'm touched by the effort.

"Bah," River says, watching me from her high chair. Her eyes tell me she isn't a cheap date. I will not win her over with sugary cereal, oh no. 

By the time the two of them have finished eating and I'm shepherding them to my car, Briar has been talking non-stop for twenty minutes and Hazel is sort of...vibrating, like that guy from the Tool video. River, between them in the car seat, meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. I wink. She spits up a little. Too bad, kid, I'm here to stay. Your dad likes me and I've got your sisters, too. Mua ha ha ha ha. 

I feel a  _little_ guilty when I drop them off. Mostly on behalf of their teachers; Hazel and Briar are high energy anyway and I apparently just overclocked them. I am confident they will be fine. Or, at least, I'm confident that since it's a public school, any property damage they cause will be the state's problem.

I take a moment before I leave the parking lot to text Amanda.

_I gave Briar and Hazel your cereal_

_!!!!???? Y THO_

_I want them to love me_

_SO YOU GIVE THME MY CEREAL WTF DAD_

_I'll buy you more_

_U BETTER_

Craig's car is parked in my driveway when I arrive home. One perk to being with Craig: there isn't a chance I'd have been able to lift that damn carseat with River in it before that mad, beautiful bastard started dragging me to the gym three times a week. I'm still scrawny, but the belly is disappearing. I no longer look like a toothbrush stuck through a grape. 

Craig is sitting on my couch, pale and drawn, abstracted looking. It's a look that has associations for me, especially following a doctor's visit. It sends me into an immediate panic. 

"Craig, holy shit, what's wrong?"

"Ho' shid," River says, maintaining unblinking eye contact with me. Goddamnit, you little Judas. See if  _you_ get any cereal. 

"Hey bro," Craig says, and he gamely tries to smile. I set the carseat down, and ignore River's toothless grin. I'll get you, my pretty. Just you wait. 

I join him on the couch, grab his hands, and try not to make it obvious that I'm thinking  _no no no no no._

"I, ah, talked to the doc," Craig says slowly. Clearly this is painful for him. 

"Yeah?" I say, rubbing his hands, which are uncharacteristically cold. 

"He says..." Craig squeezes his eyes shut and takes a bracing breath. 

"Oh, God," I say, fighting to keep the dread out of my voice.

"He said...he said...I twinged my rotator cuff," Craig says, gripping my hands almost painfully hard. "He said...I shouldn't exercise it for two or three weeks."

I can't help it, I'm suddenly so  _relieved_ that I burst out laughing. Craig looks at me, wounded.

"Bro, it's not funny!"

"No no, just..." I inhale a few times, first to stop laughing, second to slow my pulse. "I thought you were going to tell me you were sick. Like, really sick." Like Alex, I don't say aloud, but I don't have to. Craig was there, even though I hadn't been able to appreciate it at the time. 

"Oh. Oh," Craig says, understanding dawning on his face. "I'm sorry. No. But I'm...really kinda bummed about this."

"It won't kill you to take a couple weeks off," I say, throwing an arm around him. "For god's sake, Craig, you're forty-two."

"One."

"Still, though," I say, leaning my head on his shoulder. "You'll be back to bench-pressing dorm furniture in no time."

"Yeah," Craig says, giving me another one of those not-actually-smiles. "Okay."

 

<><><>

 

It very quickly becomes clear that it  _isn't_ okay. 

Craig is listless through lunch, he's barely talkative at dinner. He manages, just, to put on a brave face for his kids. I join him for a jog afterwards, because that's how worried I am. Usually when we're on a run together, he hangs back, offering encouragement, bullshitting and bantering. Tonight, though, he absolutely smokes me, running lap after lap in dead, inward silence. He runs himself into the ground, actually, panting hard, sweating bullets despite the chill of the night. 

"Is dad okay?" Briar asks me while Craig's in the shower. Usually he sings, very, very badly, but not tonight.

"He's a little bummed about his shoulder," I say, trying not to let doubt color my voice. What the hell  _is_ this?

Craig rallies a bit, getting the kids to bed. It's after nine when we're finally alone.

"You, uh, want me to stay tonight?"

"That'd be nice, man. Thanks," Craig says. He shoots me just enough of a smile to reassure me that whatever the hell this is, it isn't about me. 

I get further reassurance once we're in bed, because Craig...clings to me for a long time, like he's reassuring himself I'm still here. Nothing happens, and I'm not dumb enough to initiate. Who says I can't read a room?

He still won't talk though, even as I'm running my fingers through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck. 

"Craig, what's the problem?"

"I...nothing, bro, nothing," Craig is a terrible liar. Seriously. Total shit. 

Eventually, he goes to sleep, and there's still a line cut between his eyes. Don't scowl, Craig! You'll get wrinkles. 

I'm...worried. I'm really,  _really_ worried. I realize that I'd gotten it into my head that Craig was basically perfect, and of course he isn't. He's...mortal, like the rest of us. It was very unsettling seeing him...afraid of something?  _I'm_ supposed to be the one who gets to feel uncertain about things and periodically be a human disaster area. Lucky me, huh? Lucky Craig. 

I lie there, watching him, for a long time. I look around his room. Have I only just noticed how empty it is? How precise? Bed, dresser, shelf covered in books about health and fitness,  and a TV stand, all in dark wood, white painted walls, and nothing else.  

I come to a decision. There's only one person who can help. 

I pull myself out of Craig's grip, and he makes a discontented noise but doesn't wake up. I'll be back soon, bro. 

I step out into the living room. He vacuums twice a day. Windows washed once a week. Other than my coat, slung over the arms of a chair, there's nothing out of place.

Jesus, how stupid  _am_ I? 

Thankfully, the person I'm about to call can always be relied upon to tell me  _exactly_ how stupid I am. I sit down on the couch and begin to dial.

"Jesus Christ, Ashby, do you know what time it is?" Smashley says blearily.

"It's only like ten thirty," I say, glancing at the screen.

"Except I'm in _Lisbon,_ smart guy."

"Oh. Shit. Sorry Smashley."

"For - wait. Wait wait. Oh god, are the girls...?"

"Everyone's fine, shit, everyone's fine," I say. 

Smashley exhales. "Thanks for my incipient heart attack. Now why the fuck are you calling me way-too-early in the morning?"

"I need some advice. About Craig."

A long, fraught pause that turns into a longer, fraughter pause. It's seconds away from being a full-blown intermission before Smashley laughs, without humor. "So let me get this straight. You're calling your boyfriend's ex- _wife_ for advice. About your boyfriend."

"Yes. That is our situation."

"Just checking," Smashley says. "Have I mentioned this whole thing is weird? This whole thing is weird.  _Bisexual Amish Wife-Swappers of Malibu_ weird."

"Oh my god, did you catch the latest episode?" I say, sidetracked.

"Focus," says Smashley, voice sharp. 

"Sorry," I say, sitting up straighter. 

"What's the problem?"

I outline it. Smashley listens, asking a question every so often.

"Ah, Ashby? How much do you know about Craig, post college?"

"Not much," I say, making a face. "Alex and I adopted Amanda the summer after I graduated. I...fell out of touch."

"Don't beat yourself up too much. But, that's something you might want to ask him about. Not my story to tell. As for the rest..." Smashley pauses. "Are you at all familiar with what self-medicated anxiety disorders look like?"

"No, but I'm guessing they look a whole lot like Craig."

"Mm," Smashley says, suddenly sounding weary. "Ashby...I love Craig. Always have, always will. But he always had to be perfect for me, or he'd just...fall apart. I...feel like it kept him small."

Smashley had never been small. College had become a high-powered law school had become her becoming a prosecutor. She's put serial killers and crooked cops and politicians behind bars. They called her The Piranha, the little woman with the sharp sharp teeth. She was in Lisbon because she was at an international conference as a guest speaker. She had hinted, during our drinks a couple months ago, that she was being tapped to work for the State Department. 

And Craig...Craig wanted to stay in Maple Bay. 

 I look around at the perfectly orderly room, and at Craig's perfectly orderly life. I remember how before we got together, he would work himself to the bone every night, wear himself down to nothing. I had assumed it was just...Craig, but was it? 

"Shit," I say succinctly.

Smashley laughs. "It took me awhile to see it. Don't feel bad."

"Oh, I feel bad. I feel  _really bad._ " 

"Don't," Smashley snaps, and I swear to God my heels almost click together. 

"Thanks Smashley. Love you."

"Love you too, idiot. Go get some sleep and talk to him in the morning." 

I hang up, still smiling down at my phone. 

I get myself up the stairs in the dark with no mishaps, and rejoin Craig in bed. I curl up against him, feeling him relax, fractionally, in his sleep. 

"I'm gonna handle the  _fuck_ out of this," I say happily.

"Mnerm," Craig sighs.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," I say with a smirk. 

 

<><><>

 

I'm awake by the time Craig opens his eyes, a magical thirty seconds before his alarm is set to go off for his five AM workout. Of all his superpowers, that's the one that impresses me the most.

"Hey," he says, voice warm. 

"Hey," I say, and I figure that's enough preamble. "I will still love you if you get fat, you know."

"I-wha?" Craig says, blinking.

"I will still love you if you're fat. Or if your house is a mess, or if you get upsetting news at the doctor and snap at me because you feel shitty. I will still love you if you make a mistake or accidentally clock Hazel in the face with a baking sheet or put a ding in my car."

"What?"

"I'm just laying it out for you, Craig."

"No, I mean..." Craig's eyes are searching. Just for posterity, I want it on the record that he's completely awake and in full possession of his mental faculties,  _five seconds after waking up._ If I didn't love him so much I'd have to hate him.

"You love me?" Craig says.

"Oh, shit," I say. "I mean, yes. Obviously. I love you so much it hurts. Duh. Come on, man."

"You're really terrible at this," Craig says, but he's smiling broadly. "Where'd all this come from?"

"This is a spontaneous, completely unscripted declaration of love and support and understanding," I say haughtily. "Based entirely on my understanding of your psychological well being."

"You called Smashley, didn't you."

"Yes," I say apologetically. "I was really worried about you."

"I..." Craig headbutts me gently, resting his forehead on mine. "I'm sorry."

"Jesus Christ, Craig. I don't want you to be sorry. I want you to be  _okay._ "

"I know, I know. It's just...hard. I've got the routine, and the routine is good. It's great, even, now that you're part of it. But...something fucks it up, I'm just afraid it'll all come apart and I can't stop thinking about it, until..."

"Until it all comes apart," I say.

"Yeah. Shit, bro-"

"Craigory Elizabeth Cahn, don't you  _dare_ apologize to me again." 

"I think Smashley still has my original birth certificate but I'm...90% sure that isn't my actual name."

I pull him closer, breathing with him, feeling him relax again. Every muscle in his body had been wire tight, I realized, while we were talking. 

"I'll still love you if you decide you need to see someone, like a therapist or something. It won't mar your perfection  _too_ much."

"I'll...think about it," Craig says. 

 We spend a few moments together in silence. It's nice, it's easy between us again. I really hope my next question doesn't fuck things up.

"Craig...what happened after college? Smashley said I should ask you."

"Shit," Craig says, and he stiffens up again. Damn it, me. Why do you have to be  _that_ guy all the time. 

"I'm sorry," I say instantly. 

"No no no," Craig says, and inhales. "That summer...we were at some dumbass party, Smashley and I. She was passed out. I was shitfaced. I...decided to drive us home."

Oh no.

"We, uh. Crashed.  _I_ crashed," Craig's voice is shaking, very slightly. "Everyone was fine. Car was totally wrecked, and the tree didn't make it, but we were fine. Not a scratch. But...it was in spite of me. In spite of me being stupid, and selfish, and almost killing the only person who mattered to me."

"Shit."

"Right? That's...that's when I decided I couldn't be Kegstand Craig anymore. That drunk idiot fuckup was gonna get someone killed, and if he was really, really lucky, it was gonna be him and nobody else. So I...uh, stopped. But it's like he's just waiting for me to fuck up again. Waiting for me to backslide."

"Craig..." I say, and he's full-blown shaking now.

"I work really hard, I know, and it was twenty years ago, I know, and I'm a totally different person,  _but what if I'm not_?"

"That'll never happen," I say, grabbing his hands and squeezing them "I won't let it, River and Briar and Hazel won't let it,  _you_ won't let it."

"I know that, when things are good. Not so much when they aren't."

"Isn't that always the way?" 

"I see you and Amanda, and you're the perfect dad, and I worry about how I'm possibly gonna measure up."

I can't help it, I laugh out loud. "Perfect dad? Remember how I mentioned accidentally hitting your daughter with a cookie sheet? I _did_ that. It was a hot cookie sheet, covered in cookies. Boom! Right in the kisser."

"Really?"

"Really. It was  _Christmas Eve."_

"Well, accidents happen."

"I have never once remembered the name of one of her friends. I had no idea that girls didn't just, like,  _magically get_ their own tampons. I never learned how to braid her hair. I once forgot to pick her up from day camp and went to a friend's Oscar party. She went home with a _camp counselor._ "

"Dude, dude, enough," Craig says, laughing. 

"I don't need you to be perfect, I need you to be you," I say, and goddamnit, is it my imagination or am I acing this?

"Okay," Craig says. "Okay."

"And screw your shoulder. That means it's leg day. You love leg day."

"Leg day rules," Craig agrees.

"Leg day is the devil, Cahn. I'll join you." 

"I love you," he says.

"I love you as much as I  _hate leg day._ "

Craig kisses me, and it goes on long enough that I consider asking him if there's an alternative cardiovascular exercise he might enjoy, hur hur. Just as he starts to get that faraway look in his eyes, his hand resting on my hip, River begins to cry, her voice tinny and distant through the baby monitor.

"Whoops, River's awake," Craig says, vaulting out of bed and throwing on a t-shirt. He hustles out. I fix the baby monitor with a hostile stare. The cries, mysteriously, have ended.

"Not cool, baby. Not cool," I say, glaring.

"Mlem," says the baby monitor smugly before I throw my shoe at it. 


	4. Alex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A yearly tradition between father and daughter - wait, why are all these other people here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's gonna hit a bit below the belt, friends. _You have been warned._

Feet apart, core braced, knees tight but not locked. Great. Wonderful. I feel like I have a fucking piano on my back. Or a hippopotamus, staring at the back of my head with beady black eyes, waiting to crush me. 

"Steady bro," says Craig from behind me. "You've got this." The hell does he know? He's the reason I'm in this mess.

I never did this shit before I got together with Craig. You know how it goes: you meet a guy in college, you drift apart after you both get married, then you run into him years later and it turns out he's an incredible piece of ass and likes you for some completely inexplicable reason and you seduce each other on a camping trip and then all of a sudden you're going to the gym together and the news article about your death will read  _Local Nerd Bisected By Overloaded Barbell, a Nation Mourns._

Oh wait. Maybe you don't know how that goes.

"You've got this," Craig says again. I wonder who he means to reassure. "If you get into trouble, I've got you. I've always got you."

"You  _cannot_ ," I say through grinding teeth, the barbell cutting into the flesh of my shoulders, "make this a Metaphor About Our Relationship. Not allowed. Denied."

"Pretty good one, though."

I squat down low; that's the easy part.  _Gravity_ is helping me get down. I wonder, briefly, if this is how an astronaut would feel on Jupiter. Getting up, on the other hand...

"Come on, bro," Craig says. "Easy. Just lift it up."

Slowly but steadily, cursing like a sailor receiving amateur surgery, I manage, inch my painstaking inch, to get the barbell up. Seriously: some of the tattooed muscle bros are covering their ears and blushing like schoolgirls, such is is the intensity of my cuss. The instant I've returned to starting position Craig has his hands on the bar, guiding it back to the rack. I stumble a bit, catching my hand on the wall, panting like an overheated dog. My quads are...Not Happy. The message I'm getting from them is  _the hell you spend forty years filling us up with Doritos and buttermilk biscuits and then do this to us **the hell**_.

"Goddamn, good job!" Craig says, slapping me on the shoulder. I manage to contain the whimper. 

"How...how much weight was that?" I pant. Do any of my neighbors have a hot tub? Correction, do any of my neighbors besides Brian have a hot tub? Maybe Ernest could help me score some Demerol. 

"One seventy-five, bro."

I blink. "Like...pounds?"

"Yeah."

"But...Craig. I don't even  _weigh_ one seventy-five."

Craig grins. It's a shame this gym has a shirts required policy, because I could  _really_ use a pick-me-up.

"Holy shit," I say, and I feel myself grinning with him. 

We leave the gym shortly thereafter. In the car, listening to my quads sing a kind of pain symphony, I glance over at him.  _He's_ totally fine, of course. Rotator cuff all healed up, back to his normal routine.

"You know, there was a time when I used to get most of my endorphins from eating an entire package of cupcakes, or one of those microwaveable cartons of mashed potatoes."

"Things change," Craig replies, grinning at me.

"Now I seem to get most of them from working out. You bastard."

"I'm a terrible person, bro." 

"Most of the rest of them from sex. You bastard."

"Your life is so difficult," Craig says, laughing. 

"I read this article in Men's Health, you know." I say airily. 

"What did it say?"

"I forget the actual  _science_ , but the gist was that you get something like twelve hundred percent more gains by having hot gay sex with your boyfriend in his totally empty house before his legs lock up and cease to function for a week." 

"Wow. How progressive. What are the straight bros supposed to do?"

"Switch teams. For science. For the _gains_. Obviously."

"Sounds like pretty good science bro," Craig says. "We should do it. For the gains, obviously. No other reason."

"Oh, yeah, of course," I say, already feeling better. I wasn't kidding about the legs, though. They're gonna be down for the count for...probably the foreseeable future. I figure I have maybe twenty minutes before the delayed muscle tension catches up with me. Better use that window. 

We get back to my place and I open the door. 

"Craig," I say, wincing.

"Yeah?" He asks, getting out.

"Not sure I can walk. You're gonna have to carry me," I say, coyly. 

Craig gives me a level stare, then shrugs and walks over to my side of the car. He picks me up with no visible effort on his part and slings me over his shoulder, like a carpet or a bag of fertilizer. 

"This is not what I meant!" I say as he walks towards the door.

"Shoulda specified," he says cheerfully. 

 "This is humiliating," I say, for the record.

He slaps my ass,  _really hard_ , by way of response. 

We open the door, and Craig very nearly drops me when Amanda, sitting on the couch, says "Dad!"

Craig sets me down, and I manage not to immediately collapse. Possibly my previous estimate of twenty minutes was...optimistic. 

" _Dad dad dad dad dad dad-_ "

"Amanda!" I say before enfolding her in a monster hug, dancing back and forth. I'm not even mad at being cock-blocked by own daughter, I'm so happy to see her. It's cuter when Amanda does it than River. I'm tearing up, a little, and Amanda sniffs into my shoulder, and I suspect she is too. 

"Hi Craig," Amanda says, and sure enough, she's a little sniffly. 

"Hey Amanda," Craig says, grinning from ear to ear. He loves Amanda, like every person on the planet with more than two brain cells to rub together. Possibly I am biased. 

"Manda-panda, not like I'm not thrilled to see you, but...how did you even  _get_ here?" I ask. Her college is hours and hours away. 

"Yo," says a voice from my favorite armchair. Delphine, hair now an eye-burning magenta and face mostly hidden behind an iPhone, waves absently at me. 

"I wanted to surprise you," Amanda says, laughing. They've had a long night, I can tell. She needs a nap and a shower, stat. 

"Well, mission accomplished. But sweety...why? Thanksgiving isn't for weeks."

Amanda's smile fades, a tiny bit; she cocks her head at me. "It's November 7th tomorrow, dad."

Oh, shit. 

Oh shit, it is. Jesus fucking Christ. 

"Oh my god," I say, and I realize I'm suddenly sitting on the couch. Did I fall, or something? "Oh my god, it is. I...forgot. I can't believe I forgot."

"What's November 7th?" Craig says, not without trepidation. 

"It's, uh, the day Alex died," I say, and it's somehow...easier _and_ harder, than it used to be? What the hell? 

"Oh," Craig says, a little hollow. 

"It's okay if you don't wanna come with me," Amanda says sturdily. She's being very mature, very understanding, but I know instantly that it would  _not_ be okay. Whatever Amanda needs, she gets. 

"No, no. Of course I will," I reassure her. "Amanda and I always visit his grave around this time of the year. Bring a picnic, that kind of thing," I explain for Craig's benefit. 

"Oh. Ah, I see," Craig says. He looks about as comfortable as I feel. That is to say, _not very._  

"Craig..."

"No no, I'll leave you guys be for a bit," Craig says, backing away from the situation like he would an unexploded bomb "Dinner at my house, maybe?"

"Uh...yeah," I say, confused. Not by Craig's reaction, Jesus no, that's the easiest thing in the world to understand. By...basically everything else. By my feelings. "That'd be nice. Amanda, Delphine?"

"Yeah, of course!" Amanda says with a reasonable approximation of good cheer. "Yeah, of course," Delphine seconds, in a somewhat more sultry tone of voice. Better than you have tried, Delphine. Better than you have tried. 

I manage to get a bowl of cereal and a shower into Amanda and get her off to bed for a nap. Delphine crashes on the couch, and as near as I can tell, instantly forgets that I exist. 

My phone buzzes. It's Craig.

_You okay?_

I text him back a simple  _yes._ It doesn't...feel like a lie? Quite? At least the  _love you_ is true.

_Love you too. Duh._

"Jesus Christ," I say, squeezing my eyes shut, resting my forehead against the cool steel of the fridge.

Also, my legs really hurt. 

 

<><><>

 

The fourth worst day of my life is the day of the accident. Forever after, Craig or Amanda not responding to a text can cause...a certain anxiety. Like shaking, dry heaving in the sink panic attacks. But it's my problem, not theirs, and I try to keep it that way.

He doesn't come home that night. It isn't unheard of for him to work late, of course. But he always calls. 

Annoyance becomes worry becomes fear becomes terror becomes certainty. The nice young woman from County calls me, mispronouncing both my first and last name, telling me that Alex is in critical but stable condition. I will remember, very vividly, seeing my knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel, Amanda yawning sleepily in the front seat. It hasn't hit her yet, quite. But god, will it hit her.

 _Dad's gonna be okay, Manda-Panda,_ I tell her, and she is young enough to believe me. That won't last long. I will wonder, sometimes, how she ever manages to trust me again. 

It will be days,  _days_ , before Alex wakes up. In the meantime, I speak with a succession of doctors, whose carefully measured words and meticulously hedged bets scare me more than anything has in my entire life. There's been damage to his skull and spine, they tell me. Left unspoken is the chance of damage to his brain. There's a chance of...how did they put it.  _Moderate to severe motor impairment._ That seems slightly premature, since there's swelling in his brain and there's a chance that he may not wake up for awhile. A chance he might not wake up at all.

Amanda's in the waiting room, playing with the sad, battered toys. Another thing I will remember vividly: the absent, perfunctory kindness of the doctor, who has thick gray wavy hair like a newscaster and red marks from glasses on either side of his nose, telling me that there's...something else. On the X-rays of Alex's brain. Something that causes him some concern.

 _It's too early to be worried, Mr. Wynne,_ he tells me absently. I know that this is a damn fucking lie the minute I hear it. 

I am young enough to _want_ to believe him, though. That doesn't last long, either. 

 

<><><>

 

Dinner's a pretty subdued affair. For me, Craig and Amanda, that is. Delphine seems to be one of those people who can't read a room at gunpoint. 

"So do you like, work out a lot?" Delphine says avidly. She doesn't take her eyes off Craig as she shoves another oven fry in her mouth. 

"Uh...yes," Craig says, bemused. 

"Is she your only friend with a car?" I ask Amanda, sort of quietly. I needn't have bothered. I could probably shout critiques with a megaphone and they would bounce off Delphine's total and absolute self-absorption. 

" _Yes_ ," Amanda whispers back. I squeeze her hand under the table. 

"I _bet_. I _bet_ you work out a lot." 

"He does," I say, wearily.

"So does he," Craig said, nodding at me. Amanda pokes my bicep; I swat at her. For a second, things are fine. She tries for a few more pokes; I grab a napkin and throw it at her face.

"Ack! Steak sauce!" Amanda says. 

"Ha ha! Vengeance!"

After dinner, Amanda helps with the dishes. Well, she sits on the counter and shows Craig all the latest pictures from her Instagram while I scrub. He's properly enthralled, bless him.

"I took this one on the nature trail," Amanda says, holding her phone sideways. Craig oohs and ahhs.

"Lot of pictures of that guy," Craig notes, flashing me a wink over Amanda's head.

"Wait, which guy? The skinny ginger with all the tattoos?" I look up from the sink, suddenly suspicious.

" _And_ the gauges," Craig says. 

"He's just a friend," Amanda says, turning off her phone before I can cross the room. 

"Tattoos, Amanda? Tattoos?" I say. "Do yourself a favor and find someone you can take to a PTA meaning."

"Lots of people have a little ink, dad."

"Like who?" I say, mostly taunting her for the hell of it. 

"Like me...lanie. My friend Melanie. Yes."

"Oh god," I say, either to the dirty dishes or the universe, generally. "Show me, Amanda."

She blushes and pulls her shirt off her left shoulder. There, still looking a little red, is a small tattoo of an iris, in blues and purples. It's pretty, but she clearly expects me to give her shit for it, so I oblige.

"Oh, my daughter has profaned her body with ink," I declaim, swooning. "Oh, she's going to end up common law married to some loser from Reno and wind up on the groundbreaking Bravo original series  _Hoodrats, Incorporated._ Oh, the shame she has brought to this family."

"I think it's pretty, Amanda. Certainly much better than...other people's tattoos," Craig says, face straight.

"Craig..." I warn.

"Yes?" He says, blinking innocently.

"Wait," Amanda says, eyes narrowed. "Do you mean-"

"I mean someone in this room, and it isn't me..."

"Craigory!" I say sharply.

"Dad! You have a tattoo?!" Amanda says, incredulous.

"No," I lie.

"Little ankh, left cheek," Craig says, snickering.

Amanda, the sweet innocent child, lifts her eyes to my face for a confused instant. Then she realizes, and she turns bright red. Craig starts busting up.

"I will kill you for this, Cahn."

"Naw," Craig replies easily.

"Ohmigod, Dad, _why_...?"

"College," I say ruefully. "So you've got some class points on your old man. Be proud."

Amanda's still tired from the trip, so I promise to follow along behind her when she leaves. She manages to drag Delphine with her. I resign myself to a few days of houseguesting. I say I'm staying a bit longer because I want to finish the dishes. What I do instead is sit myself on the counter so Craig and I are roughly the same height, and pull him to me.

"Bro-" he manages to get out before I'm kissing him with real need, with an urgency that has nothing to do with sex. He tastes like radishes from the salad, which isn't optimal, but what the hell. Eventually, I allow him to surface for oxygen, keeping two big handfuls of his shirt, feeling the warm, solid...Craigness of him. I need that right now. The warmth of his body is comforting beyond words, just now.

"Thank you," I say quietly, listening to him breathe. 

"For what?"

"For being here. For being you. For helping Amanda," I say.  _For being alive_ is what I don't say.

"Of course. Anything you need," Craig says, voice a little uncertain. "Are you okay?"

"Yes and no," I say, hugging him. He wraps his arms around me and squeezes, hard. "Mostly yes, a little no. I'm sorry to spring all this on you."

Craig doesn't say anything, just continues to hold me. It's enough.

 

<><><>

 

The third worst day of my life is the day Alex wakes up.

I've been at the hospital night and day for two weeks, at this point. So naturally he wakes up when I'm taking an hour at home to shower, change and shave. I leave my face unshaven and throw my dirty clothes back on, try not to redline the engine on my piece of shit car as I drive to Amanda's school to grab her.

_He's awake, Mr. Wynne. He's asking for you._

Amanda's excited and relieved. She doesn't know what I know. She doesn't know what I'm going to have to tell Alex, because I told his doctors he should hear it from me, hear it from someone who loves him. Maybe I should have told her before. Maybe it's cruel to have kept it from her. I don't know, and it's not like I'm ever going to ask her.

I forget for a moment, what the doctors had told me three days earlier, when I walk into the room and his eyes are open and he's smiling and it's  _Alex._  

"Daddy!" Amanda shrieks, sobbing with relief. 

"Hey Panda," Alex says, putting a clumsy, tube-covered hand on her head, stroking her hair.

I go to the other side of the bed and take his other hand.

"Hey my love," Alex says, and I just shake for a little bit. He's too skinny. His voice is weak. This is as good as it's ever going to be again.

"Jesus, Alex," I say, squeezing my eyes shut.

"It's going to be okay. 'M here now," Alex says, voice foggy. 

Every minute I don't tell him feels unbearably fucking selfish. Something I'm stealing from a future I don't deserve. I know it doesn't make sense. But my stomach is full of hot lead and I wish, suddenly, awfully, that I'd let the doctors break it to him before I got there. I'll feel like shit about that thought a lot, in the months and years ahead.

"Amanda, can you go grab your dad and me a soda?" I say, pulling out my wallet and handing her a few dollars, so she can get one for herself. Alex, perfectly aware something's up even through the drugs, smiles and waves her out of the room. In the sudden silence, he sighs.

"Think...I rolled the car," Alex says, "I went blind in one eye..."

His left eye. Neither of his eyes is exactly focusing, but that one is noticeably lagging.

"They tell me I've been out for awhile...Ash, what's going on?"

I open my mouth to speak. Nothing comes out, nothing at all. Alex looks at me with his good eye, gives my hand the feeblest squeeze imaginable.

"Tell me," he says. Even now, he's stronger than me, smarter than me. So I tell him.

 _Glioblastoma Multiforme_ are the words that have been pounding in my mind, driving desperate phone calls and internet searches and muffled crying jags in the bathroom late at night so Amanda won't hear. I don't speak Doctor, so here's a translation: things are never going to be okay again.

 

<><><> 

 

I'm glad it's a gloomy late afternoon as Amanda and I drive out to the graveyard, picnic basket in the backseat, Delphine miraculously ditched. She wanted to come, Amanda tells me.

"She's in theater. Wants to see grief up close and personal," Amanda says, grinning as though this is funny. 

"Thanks for leaving her behind."

"I got Lucien to take her around."

I snort. Talk about a match made in heaven. "That's _not_ a very nice thing to do to him, Amanda."

"He owes me money, is the thing."

"...That's my girl."

I'm glad it's a gloomy day because it fits the mood. My mind is...total pandemonium, actually. I woke up way too early, stomach a big surly sack of acid. It's not guilt, what I'm feeling. Alex has been gone eleven...shit, twelve years now. Alex wasn't the jealous type, and besides, he knew Craig, he liked Craig. I know he'd want me to be happy, though he'd probably slap me upside the head for taking over a decade to go about it.

No, this feels...darker. I feel like I'm angry about something, and I can't quite pin down what. 

We park. I grab the blanket and Amanda grabs the basket. There's a very...colorful looking man in a hoody and baseball cap waiting by the wrought iron gate.

"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeey spooks fans!" He says, and his voice couldn't be sleazier if he was just saying  _big olllllllll' titties_ over and over again. "Are you here for Tourmaster Quinn's hellaciously haunted week after Halloween daytime graveyard tour?"

"Quinn, bother either of us again today and I will kill you with whatever body part is handiest," I say pleasantly. I might be in a bit of a mood.

"Seriously," Amanda growls. Oh boy. She might be, too.

"Woah ho ho, no need to be like that, folks! Just tryin' to feed my kids!" 

 "Do the gene pool a favor. Let 'em starve," I suggest. 

 _That_ shuts him up. He wanders off, probably to sell snake oil or used bibles or flood insurance to old widows. I wonder about Quinn, sometimes. I imagine he is either secretly a figure of tragic romance or has a crawlspace full of dead nurses under his house. One or the other. 

"That was kinda harsh, dad."

"Sorry," I say, with a complete lack of apology. 

"I'm not the one whose kids you just tried to Malthus." 

"Daaaaaaaaamn, college." 

We're both trying too hard. It's okay, but I'm worried that Amanda seems so tense. Usually, this is...not a happy thing, no. But it's not usually this...fraught. 

"You didn't have to come with me," Amanda says after a long silence. Alex's grave is up a shallow slope, right under a historic oak tree. I've read the plaque next to that tree several thousand times.

"Of course I did."

"I mean, I'd understand if-"

"Amanda," I say, gently but firmly. "I love Craig, yeah. But I love Alex, too. I love you. It's not hard."

"You just seem...a little..."

"I know," I say quietly. We're here, and I spread the blanket over the grass. "I'm sorry. It's like...I'm less sad. But I...Amanda, I'm so  _angry._ I have been for eleven years."

There's a wilted bouquet on Alex's headstone. I don't have the heart to throw it away, or drop-kick it down the hill. But I really, really want to. I know who left it there.

"How nice," I say tightly. "David and Gloria have been here. But of course, I knew that. They dropped in to see me, they called to say they were in town, they came by to give you the eighteen years of birthday and Christmas presents they forgot to send.  _Oh fucking wait._ "

"Dad!" Amanda's voice cracks out, distressed. That pulls me up short, and I feel ashamed.

"Oh Jesus, Amanda. I'm sorry," I say. She shakes her head and gives me a huge hug, resting her head against my chest for long moments.

"It's okay," Amanda says. "It's...okay. We love him. They love him. It's okay."

"Sure," I say, fooling absolutely nobody. We sit, and begin portioning out sandwiches and sodas. 

Amanda begins to talk. To tell Alex about graduating, about college, about getting up to misadventures with Delphine. About Milo, who I figure is the skinny ging with employability issues. I chime in with laughing commentary, and the moment seems okay.

 _Alex Wynne_ , the headstone reads.  _Beloved Son._ Not, of course,  _Beloved Husband._ Or  _Loving Father._ No no, of course not. I'd been too out of my mind with grief to handle the arrangements, so his parents had. I supposed I was lucky they'd honored his wishes to be buried in Maple Bay and not back in Savannah. Yeah, thanks David, thanks Gloria. Thanks ever so much. 

They love him, Amanda says. I admit that it might be true. They love Alex the child, Alex the varsity football star, Alex the tiny little doll version they keep in their minds. Not Alex the photographer, Alex the poet, Alex the father, Alex the gay man who decided to marry the skinny little mixed-race faggot he met up in college and whom they've never, not once, acknowledged. They love the two-tenths of their son that they were comfortable dealing with and ignore the rest.

I need to get over this. I need to not ruin this for Amanda. But goddamnit, I'm still so angry.  

 

<><><>

 

The second worst day of my life is the day they bring him home. I learned, very quickly, when talking to doctors to listen to what they don't say, what they stop saying, more than what they say.

There's no more talk of surgery or physical therapy. Alex can walk, just barely, with a Zimmer frame, but it hurts all the time and it exhausts him. There's no talk of a surgical solution, either to his spine or for the cancer. There's a lot of talk about comfort, and pain management. I know what that means. Of course I know.

Even just in the few weeks he's been in the hospital, see, the cancer has grown. It's grown a lot. It's not responding to treatment. He's...begun having spells, moments of confusion. The chemotherapy, the radiation...they're still doing it. But not often, and not with any great conviction. And in his lucid moments, which are becoming more and more fleeting, he makes it very clear: he wants to go home. He wants to be home when...when it happens. I don't blame him. Hospitals are the worst.

The spells are what gets me. He's losing weight, he's losing hair, none of that matters to me. But he's losing his mind, too, losing  _Alex_ , and that's more than I can bear. I'm not sleeping, at all. I can't take the idea of him having an episode in the night and not knowing where he is, where I am. I have to be strong for Amanda, and I have to be strong for Alex, she's a child and  _he's_ the one who's sick. That leaves me nobody to talk to, nowhere to turn. I'm cracking up, and I know it.

Alex knows he's going to die, in his clear moments. I know it too, God do I know it. Amanda hasn't absorbed it yet, but sometimes I watch her, little face going blank and weirdly grave for a seven-year-old, and I realize she's starting to believe it.

 

<><><>

 

"So Dad's seeing someone," Amanda says, expectantly. Raising her eyebrows at me.

"Oh come on, Amanda," I say, laughing. Things are slightly better, here. As usual, most of my and Amanda's funk could be traced to low blood sugar. Amanda has discovered the box of Chocolate Blasted Fruit Grenades I stashed in the bottom of the basket, and we're passing it back and forth like a bong. My teeth hurt, my pancreas is crying out for mercy, but what the hell. Dead Husband Day only comes but once a year. 

So I tell him about Craig. About how...hell. How we sort of skipped the preliminary awkwardness, the early fights, the friction as we figured out how to be together, and just got on with being together. Being with Craig is...comfortable, in a way I can't really explain. It's not just that we're friends, or that we knew each other at our absolute nadirs. By the time I met Alex, Craig had convinced me to stop wearing a herringbone-patterned trilby hat I believed made me look  _very_ dashing. By the time he met Smashley, I had convinced him that washing his goddamn hoody more than once per geological epoch would be a good idea. 

It's so... _grown up_. 

Amanda, cross-legged across from me, is smiling, perfectly happy as she listens to me. God, she's a good kid. Where the hell did that come from?

 

<><><>

 

I won't belabor this. The worst day of my life is, obviously, the day he dies. Of course it is. 

The moment itself is bad enough. Alex's body, broken and infringed upon and bloated from the steroids goes still, Amanda's cries (she's been crying for about a month, more or less nonstop, as near as I can figure) ratchet up to a scream, a banshee noise I'd never heard out of her or any other person. I'd scream, too, if I didn't feel like most of me died at the same time. 

That's not the most vivid memory that day, strangely enough. My most vivid memory is standing in our living room like a mannequin, Amanda's face pressed against my leg while she makes these...terrible high pitched keening noises like a beaten animal. The crying was better. The screaming was better. The very kind, very efficient outpatient hospice care people are doing their jobs, very kindly, very efficiently. Very soon, the equipment will be gone, the people will be gone. Alex will be gone, is gone. Everything is still inside me, and my thoughts seem to have an echo to them.

 _Well_ , I think to myself, hand resting on Amanda's head. 

_What the fuck do I do now?_

 

<><><>

 

It's getting dark as we wrap things up. In spite of her father mainlining rage-osterone, she seems...relaxed. Happy. I'm glad that I did this with her. 

There's people waiting in the parking lot for us. I blink, surprised. One of them is Craig, and he's all dressed up. Pleated slacks and a black button up shirt. Sure, the shirt is short sleeve, but Craig has nice forearms. Why hide them? The other, to my gobsmacked surprise and delight, is Smashley. Excuse me, Ashley Watanabe-Cahn, dressed in a killer black Chanel suit, gray and black hair perfectly quaffed and held in place with jeweled sticks. Last seen making the rounds of Youtube on a CourtTV clip of her brutal cross-examination that made a cannibal serial killer cry like, per her statement to the press, 'a [bleeping] dirty little bitch.' 

"Oh my god!" I say, and I hug her. I'm short, but the top of her head barely brushes my chin. She's wearing flats, which means she's here to party.

"Hey to you too," Smashley says, laughing. 

"What are you both doing here?"

"Well," Craig says, a little uncertain. "I, uh, Smashley and I were talking when she came by with the kids, and we talked about Alex, and we were thinking-"

"This was  _entirely_ Craig's idea, don't buy it for a second-"

"What was Craig's idea?" I ask, confused.

"Well," Smashley says, and I realize she's holding a brown paper bag in her hand. She pulls the bottle out and holds it aloft.  _Horny Buzzard Whiskey._ Oh, dear god. It's not nice whiskey, those of you fortunate enough to not be acquainted for it. Winos sleeping under bridges tend to find it a little astringent. I've always suspected it's de-commissioned napalm, left over from the Vietnam War. It was, however, around six dollars a bottle in the 1990s, so Alex, Craig, Smashley and I swore by it. Most of my life's poorest decisions have been lubricated by this vile substance. 

Of course, about a quart of it is what gave me the courage to jump Alex that first time, while we were, hah hah, working on a group project together. So what do I know.

"She lies, all her idea," Craig says. 

"We all went to Alex's funeral, but funerals are for pussies," Smashley says, grinning wickedly. "Now, my question for you, sweet Ashby, sweet Amanda...did Alex ever get a  _wake_?" 

"Oh dear," I say, but I'm smiling. "Wait, you were at-"

"Of course we were, bro. You were, uh, a little out of it," Craig says, a little uncertain.

"Jesus. Of course you were. Of course I was," I notice that Craig still looks shifty. Time for an act of mercy. "Craig, this is a great goddamn idea. Whichever of you it came from."

Craig relaxes, visibly.

"Group effort," Smashley concedes. She jerks her head towards our cars. Mine is the dinged up Explorer.  _Hers_ is the crazy experimental European custom silver...thing with the caramel leather interior that is probably too expensive for me to even gaze upon, much less ride in or drive. It's a rental, but holy shit, who did she rent it from?  _Bruce Wayne_?

"Come on," she says. "Let's go. Follow us."

"Who's got the kids?"

"Brian's babysitting," Craig says. Goddamnit, now I owe Brian a favor. 

 

<><><>

 

To my surprise, we pull into the little parking lot behind The Coffee Spoon. Everything in Maple Bay that isn't frequented by Mary and Robert closes after seven, and the Coffee Spoon is no exception. The windows are dark, but Mat's waiting out front, and waves as we pull in. Amanda and I get out of the car, her with a yawn and a stretch. 

"What's with the locale?" I say, jerking my head towards the coffee shop.

"You can't have a proper wake at home and we can't take Jailbait over there to a bar," Smashley says. 

"Okay," I say. "Hey, Mat."

"Hey guys. Keys please," he says, holding out his hands. Bemused, I give him my car keys, and Smashley does the same. 

"Alright, you can pick these up tomorrow," Mat says, clapping his hands. "Place is open, have fun. Try not to wreck the place, Pablo's opening in the morning and he's a gentle soul. No sex on the soft furnishings and if you're going to vomit, do it in a sink. We have like...six of them."

"Roger," says Craig. "See you at the gym, bro?"

"Yeah," Mat says, grinning. "Craig's gonna give me some personal training time, in exchange for this little favor. I'm looking forward to it."

"You really, really shouldn't," I say, shooting Craig a filthy look. I haven't mentioned it in awhile, but my legs still  _really frickin' hurt._  

Craig grins at me, the ingrate. 

"Thanks for letting us use the place, Mat," I say, meaning it. 

I went on a date or two with Mat, before things kind of...exploded into being with Craig. He's a very sweet, very handsome, very interesting and talented man, and things might have gone further if I hadn't figured out that some non-trivial portion of why I liked him so much was because he looks a bit too much like Alex. 

"No problem," he says, giving me a private little smile. It's not a romantic one. "You're not the only widower in town, y'know."

He passes Craig the key to the front door, gives Amanda a hug, and mentions on his way out that there's a basket full of day-old pastries on the counter, and we're welcome to all of it. Then he leaves, the only sign of his presence being a cloud of citrusy cologne and a sudden appraising look from Smashley, directed at his wake.

"Craig, would you be  _super_ hurt if I bang him?" Smashley asks. 

"Eh," Craig says, making a wishy washy gesture.

"Oh god, gross," Amanda says. "Dibs on the donuts."

"Hey, you can't just call dibs on the donuts!" I say, and attempt to head her off at the basket. Alas, my barely-functioning legs and her youth take the day. Soon she is ensconced cross legged on the counter, basket held overhead out of my reach, chocolate frosted donut crammed in her mouth. I'd be angry if I wasn't kinda proud. 

I manage to claim a slice of chocolate coffee cake for myself. Craig pours whiskey straight for myself and Smashley, over a big tumbler of ice from Mat's ice machine for himself, and about a tablespoon mixed with a  _lot_ of soda for Amanda. 

"Here you go," Craig says, handing it to her. "Enjoy your very first drink."

"Yes," Amanda says gravely, taking it. "This is my first time having alcohol, ever in my life. Never had it before."

"Amanda, be a love and lie to your father to make him feel better," Smashley says, knocking hers back with an effortless, elegant  _savoire faire_ I thought available only to movie stars and secret agents. 

"Father I have never had alcohol except this one time, and never will again until I am over twenty-one years of age. And then only communion wine, to help with the praying." 

"Thank you, daughter," I say seriously. 

"So let's play a game," Smashley says, as I take a sip. Holy  _crap_  this shit is vile. How did I ever manage to drink this between two and seven nights a week? How am I even _alive_?

"The game is called, the First Time I Met Alex," Smashley says. "I'll go first. The first time I met Alex was in Organic Chemistry, my freshman year. I thought he was a tall drink of water, until I got the gay vibe so hard I popped a blood vessel in my eye. He took the most wonderful notes. I used to steal them."

"I remember that," I say, sipping again. "He used to bitch about it a lot."

"Uh, the first time I met Dad, I was a baby, so I don't remember it. I'm guessing I was a fan," Amanda says, sniffing at her drink as though it might be poisonous. She's a smart woman.

The aftertaste is growing on me. Now it's like being kicked by a horse right in the mouth, instead of the nuts. I take another. Now the horse is just giving me a firm tap in the midriff, gentle, almost loving. Uh oh. 

"The first time," I say after clearing my throat. Wait, how many glasses was that...? "The first time I met Alex, is when Smashley dragged me to some stupid thing in the quad, and he was sitting under that weird sculpted cat thing, and I thought he was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen in my life, and there was no chance he'd ever want to be with someone like me," I chuckle to myself. "Then I learned he was a total dweeb. Thank God."

"The first time I met Alex was when I walked into my room at two in the afternoon and found him and Ashby..." Craig glances at me, then glances at Amanda. " _Smooching_ on my bed." 

Bless Craig and his discretion. Alex and I had most certainly  _not_ been smooching. Or, maybe we were, but not, erm, exclusively. The whole Craig's bed thing had been kind of an accident. 

"Is that when you threatened to beat him up?" Smashley asks, eyes glinting.

"Wait, when was this?" I ask, grabbing the bottle and topping myself off. Amanda has taken one sip and, with a shudder, set her glass aside in favor of one of those cheesy, seeded croissants Mat makes. I don't blame her. Horny Buzzard Whiskey is a slippery slope, littered with bodies and inadvisable haircut decisions. 

"Well, you know, once it was clear you guys were, you know, I took him aside and read him the riot act." 

"Oh, god. _Craig_."

"I was nice about it! I just told him he better treat my bro right or I'd pound him hard."

 _I_ , because I am a good person, say nothing. Smashley snorts. Amanda lets out a high pitched giggle of extended duration. Wait, wasn't that glass of hers mostly full a second ago?

"What?" Craig says, before he replays the statement. "Oh, for-that's not what I meant!" He says as the three of us bust out laughing. 

"No no, it's okay, you just wanted to pound my late husband. Totally understandable," I say, barely able to get the words out.

"The things you notice in retrospect," Smashley says, shaking her head. "Signs you missed. Paths not taken..."

"Hey!" Craig says, blushing magenta. 

It ends up being a great night. 

By the end of it, Smashley, Craig and I are hopelessly drunk, and Amanda is stuffed so full of pastries she probably got tipsy off the vanilla extract. We manage to walk to my house without too much incident. Delphine is...nowhere to be seen. I get Amanda to bed, and Craig...well, I sort of nudge Craig in the direction of my bedroom. From the thumps and ruckus I hear, it's entirely possible Craig is either on the floor or draped across the credenza. Something to worry about later. Smashley calls herself an Uber back to the hotel, and I wait with her. 

"Thank you," I say, with feeling. 

"You're welcome. This was fun," Smashley says. I join her on the couch, and throw an arm around her shoulders. She leans in gratefully. 

"I loved him too," Smashley says, very quietly. "So much. He was one of the best people I ever knew."

"Me too," I say, and that's enough. I notice she's wearing a little pendant, on a gold chain, and it gives me an idea. 

"Hey Smash? Can I buy that chain off you? I have an idea for a gift for Amanda." 

"Oh?" 

I tell her. 

"Oh, that's _perfect_ ," Smashley says, unclasping the chain and putting the pendant in her pocket. She hands me the chain. "Don't sweat it. I've got... I think fifty of them at home. All tangled up in a little ball in my jewelry box."

I thank her again and we sit in comfortable silence until her phone buzzes. I walk her to the door, and I manage to get back to my bedroom with no catastrophes. Craig's in the bed, sort of, even if the bottom half of him is hanging off the side and he's snoring like an asthmatic walrus. I curl up in the un-Craiged corner, and I'm asleep in minutes.

It's been a good day. There's a lot of good people in my life.

 

<><><>

 

"Oh god. Kill me," Craig says, muffling his cries of pain in a pillow. He's hiding from the sunlight pouring in to my bedroom. I laugh, cruelly, though truth be told I'm not doing much better. My head hurts more than my legs and my mouth tastes like a very unhappy cat took a dump in it. 

"Come on, bro," I say, without mercy. "Rise and shine. Up an at 'em."

"I haaaaaaate yooooooooooou," Craig whines into the pillow. 

"Don't hate me, hate Horny Buzzard Whiskey," I say, and I make the same vow I made no fewer than one hundred and forty-eight times in college: never again, Horny Buzzard Whiskey. Never again will you hurt me.

"I can hate both," Craig moans. " _I can totally hate you both, bro._ "

"Yeah, you can but you don't. Want me to scramble you some eggs?"

"Bro?" Craig says, levering himself up off the pillow to look at me with eyes so bleary and swollen I wonder if he can see.

"Yes, Craig?"

"If you talk about food again this morning, I love you but I will kick you. In the face."

"You wouldn't do that."

"In. The. Face."

"Fair enough. Dry toast?"

"Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh," Craig says by way of reply, kicking both his legs in my general direction like he's riding an invisible, upside-down bicycle. I leave him to his misery. Before I leave the room, though, I root around in the top drawer of my dresser, looking for the second part of Amanda's gift. I find them, buried deep down under all the old wallets and expired AAA membership cards.  

I duck in the bathroom and manage to get the cat shit taste out of my mouth, after many minutes of brushing. I consider going down to the laundry room and gargling some bleach, but I'm relatively certain that would be fatal. I use three batches of mouthwash, though.

Downstairs, Amanda and Delphine are preparing to leave. I think, briefly, about asking Delphine where she was last night, and then I decide I'm better off not knowing. I don't really want to hear it.

"Hey girls," I say, giving Amanda a hug. She looks, of course, perfectly fresh and ready to greet the day. Youth. 

"Hey dad," she says, hugging me. "That was fun last night."

"It was, wasn't it? New tradition?"

"Yeah, I think so," Amanda wrinkles her nose. "Next time, though, can we get better hooch?"

Pain spasms through my brain like someone stuck a screwdriver in it and wiggled it around. I wince. "Yes. Yes, we can deffffinately get better hooch next time. Or maybe water. Spring water."

"Deal," Amanda says. "I don't want to leave."

"You'll be back for Thanksgiving, right?" 

"Yeah, but..." Amanda laughs. "You're doing okay. I like that. Kind of. I think you should be more bereft without me."

"I'm pretty bereft, no joke. But no. I'm...better than okay, a lot of the time," I say. "And before you go, I have something for you. Delphine, can we have the room? Father-daughter time."

"Naw it's cool, go ahead," Delphine says, as her phone emits another dying shriek. What the hell is she playing, anyway? 

I count backwards from ten, and then think, what would Smashley do?

"Delphine," I snap, pointing a single finger. She jerks upright, making eye contact with me for the first time. 

"Uh," she says.

"Out," I say, pointing at the door. She leaves, throwing an appalled look over her shoulder.

"Shit, I'll have to remember that," Amanda says, impressed. Yes! I can still impress my daughter. Something to live for. 

"I, uh, have something for you," I say, awkwardly pulling Smashley's chain out of my pocket. On it are two simple yellow gold bands, one small, the other a lot larger. Amanda's eyes go wide.

"Dad, I-"

"If you say another word I'm going to cry like an infant," I say, tightly. "I just thought you should have them. Mine would probably fit you. And, like, if you ever meet someone, preferably  _not_ someone who looks like he got kicked out of Prodigy-"

"Oh dad, that's so...old," Amanda says, but there's tears standing in her eyes.

"Hush, child. But, if someday years from now you wanted to give the other one to someone, I'd understand. He'd understand. Many, many years from now, when you're the new Ansel Adams."

"Ansel Adams was a pretentious douche," Amanda says. "I'm gonna be the next Richard Avedon."

"Deal," I say. 

There's only so much time you can spend hugging your daughter; at least, that's what they tell me. She's almost to the door, battered old jacket on her back, battered old bag (mine, but Alex had given it to me) slung across her shoulders, and she stops and turns back to me.

"Uh, dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Gloria, uh, dad's mom? She found me on Facebook. We've...been in touch. A little."

I'm...really not sure how I feel about this. 

"That's, um."

"She, uh, wants to reach out to you. She's wondering if that'd be okay. David died a few years back, she's pretty old, and..." Amanda spreads her free hand, looking uncertainly at my face. "She's not my grandma, or anything. I won't talk to her anymore if you don't want me to."

"No, no," I say, smiling weakly. "It's...fine. Talk to her."

"Should she, ah, reach out?"

I examine my feelings, and I answer honestly. Amanda deserves that. Amanda deserves that, deserves a grandma, deserves everything she needs. "Amanda, I don't know. I've been angry at her for a really long time. Tell her...tell her I'll think about it. If she asks."

"Okay," Amanda says. "I wouldn't blame you. Shit's complicated, isn't it?"

"Goddamn, girl," I say, hugging her again. My brain knows it'll only be a couple of weeks, but tell that to my heart. "How did you get so smart?"

"I had a lot of help," she says. We break apart, and I watch her head down to Delphine's car, which doesn't look like it's going to get out of Maple Bay, much less all the way back to school. I worry, but then again I always worry, and always will. Not having people to worry about is worse, though. She waves out the window as they drive away.

"You okay?"

I turn, and Craig's leaning in the doorway, squinting into the hateful sunlight. He's dressed in spare gym clothes he keeps at my house, and still looks like hell. There's a toothbrush hanging from his mouth. He is a dear, wonderful man, and I'm lucky to have him. And Smashley, and Mat, and Amanda, and all the other weirdos who like me.

"Yeah," I say. "I really am, actually."

The moment hangs there, all nice and denouement-ey. Then the screwdriver in my brain gets wiggled again. And again. Okay, stop, _I get it._  

"I would be a lot okayer if I drank about a half gallon of water and got six more hours of sleep, though," I say, and all of a sudden I just want to collapse.

Craig shakes something in my face. It's a bottle of Excedrin.

"You are the most beautiful man in all the world," I say, meaning it. 

"He says, trying to score painkillers," Craig says, but he's smiling as he says it. He pulls me into the house, and shuts the door behind me.  

 


	5. Exhibition Match - 1/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that this chapter/mini-arc is going to be 90% goof and 10% sex, margin of error plus or minus ten percent, to atone for chapter 4. This is my olive branch, readers. You're welcome.
> 
> Part one of three.

"Craig," I say for what feels like the ninth time. "You know the hotel we're staying at has a gym. I saw a picture. It even has kettlebells and shit. We don't need to be going here  _at five in the goddamn morning._ "

"Sure we do," Craig says easily. Craig is not intimidated by my carping, alas, as he is not intimidated by anything less imposing than Smashley, a category that includes almost all living humans and most natural disasters. He can listen without judgement to me rage, rage against the dying of the light, or rage, rage against the judge's completely bogus call on last night's episode of _Ultimate_ _Battle Chefs: Adult Video Stars Edition._ I don't care what  _anybody_ says, Belicious St. Coxx _stole_ that risotto recipe from Dirk Logjammer. Special Celebrity Guest Judge Jenna Jameson's Mom is  _bullshit._

Ahem _._

A full minute of my ranting and Craig will just cock his head at me with that bemused little smile on his face, agree with whatever I was saying, and then give me a backrub. It's a great system. However, it does mean I end up doing a lot of things I don't want to do. Somehow. Curse him and his stupid handsome face.

"It's good for us," Craig says, pulling into the driveway of the gym. "Besides, we promised Mat."

" _You_ promised Mat.  _I_ wanted to sleep," I grouse, but honestly, it's alright. 

Amanda's winter break begins soon, and I'd be driving up to grab her in any case; Craig and I, unbeknownst to her, are heading up a few days early. She's being featured in some kind of student exhibition, and there's not a chance in hell I'll miss that. Smashley's with the girls, and is staying in town through Christmas, so we'll have a full house for the holiday. I'm looking forward to it. 

Things have been...different between Craig and me, since November. In a good way. Craig tends to keep quiet about his doubts, since they don't really fit in with his image of on-top-of-everything Superdad, but I know he has them, and he's getting better about talking to me about them. It feels like he doesn't worry that he needs to measure up to Alex anymore, and I don't worry about needing to measure up to Smashley. 

The gym is a little locally owned number, and the owner lets his favorite customers have keys to the place, so they can use it after hours. Craig, of course, is one of these. Mat's waiting by the front door, in shabby gym attire. It's cold as hell; it doesn't really snow in Maple Bay, just gets really slushy, but the breeze off the ocean can be downright cruel this time of year. My breath is smoking in no time, and I'm shivering even though I'm wearing my hoodie  _and_ Craig's. Craig is fine in just a tank top, because he is a mammal, instead of a tiny surly reptile like me.  

"Mat," I say, as he and Craig exchange the obligatory fist-bumps. "I'm so sorry that Craig dragged you out this early."

"Not a problem," Mat says as Craig unlocks the front door to let us in. "I'm a baker. I've been up for hours. I'm actually just taking a break from the shop right now."

"Good for you," I grumble, and then immediately feel guilty as I realize Mat is holding not one but  _two_ steaming styrofoam cups, one of which he hands to me. Oh, coffee. Oh, sweet nectar. 

"Craig, I'm leaving you. Mat, marry me."

"Come on bro, all my shit's at your place," Craig says. He locks the door behind us. The gym is icy; I take a scalding gulp of the coffee. We drop our bags off in the little tile-floored changing room; me and Craig are carrying full suitcases, because we'll be leaving straight from the gym to Horne to surprise my daughter. 

"You like it?" Mat says, watching my reaction. "It's a new blend. It's forty percent Ethiopian, ten percent Sumatra-"

He goes on like this for awhile. I don't have the heart to tell him that my palate for coffee is about the same as my palate for wine; I like it cheap, in large quantities, and I like to drink it out of one of Craig's huge juice glasses at the dinner table. 

"-but the trick is, I actually  _roast_ it like I would espresso, even though the flavor profile is a lot more complex. Do you taste the caramel nuttiness?" 

"Yes, absolutely," I lie. I taste hot chalk water, laced with an arbitrarily legal amphetamine I probably would have turned to serial murder without, years and years ago. But Mat nods happy, smiling one of those totally unfair face-transforming smiles. Why does he want my approval? Why does anyone? Why are all these beautiful men plagued with self-doubt? 

"Heater," I say, once the coffee is gone and the overhead lights are slowly flickering and buzzing to life. "Craig, heater." 

"You'll warm right up on the treadmill," Craig says with cheerful cruelty. Oh, that's how it's going to be, is it?

I start my jog, smiling at the back of Craig's head, beginning to plot my revenge. Oh, it will be sweet. 

 

<><><>

 

I start small. Standing a little too close to Craig, letting my hands linger a little too long when I'm spotting or, heh heh, adjusting his position. Craig cottons to it right away, shooting me an expression that's probably fifty-fifty between embarrassment and amusement.

Dodging Craig's three kids has left me with preternatural timing. When Matt's attention wanders, I manage to put a couple of moves on Craig that a eunuch couldn't mistake. While he's doing the overhead press, I manage to run a finger very, very slowly down his flank.

"Don't drop that bar," I say, sniggering, on tiptoe, mouth a little too close to his ear. Matt, getting a drink from the fountain over by the squat racks, doesn't notice. Craig has an ear thing in a big way. Two nibbles and a whispered suggestion and he's usually ready to go.  In the mirror on the wall opposite Craig, I can see him squeeze his eyes shut, trying to ignore me. Futile Cahn, futile. I am a sexy supervillain and you are my _arch nemesis,_  Sexy Batman. No, Sexy Nightwing. No wait...Sexy Aquaman? Yes, definitely Sexy Nightwing. 

"Watch your stance," I whisper, and I let the tip of my tongue flick, every so gently, against his earlobe. Craig hisses aloud, racking the barbell and leaning heavily against it, shooting me a look through narrowed eyes in the mirror that practically lights my hair on fire.

"Gonna get you for this, bro,"  Craig says, with a smile that's mostly just him showing his teeth.

"Promise?" I breathe, smirking, hands taking a rather proprietary grip on his hipbones. Forget the Adonis belt; that flouncy Greek douchebag had a  _Craig_ belt. I do a lightning fast Mat check; he's in the corner, texting. God bless cell phones. Play some Candy Crush, Mat. I'm a man on a mission.

"Pretty sure this violates my gym membership agreement," Craig says as my hands, very slowly, start to shift position. Mat's calling someone, probably Pablo, because he's all  _check the muffins_ this and  _don't forget to clean the mop sink_ that. 

"That's not all you're gonna violate," I say, tip of one fingernail tracing, very gently, the increasingly obvious outline on Craig's sweatpants. He's gripping that bar really, really tight. Watch out, bro. Carpal tunnel is no joke. 

"So I wanted to work on my bench," Mat says, setting his phone down on a weight bench and shaking his head, probably at the vicissitudes of the small business owner. I'm several feet away from Craig instantly, examining my fingernails as though contemplating my dire need for an emery board. Craig's breathing really, really hard. 

"Yeah?" I say, innocence itself. Craig shoots me a filthy, filthy glare. "Having some trouble?"

"Yeah, hurt my wrist a bit last time. Did some stretches."

"Gotta keep 'em straight," I say, demonstrating. "Get the whole arm and shoulder behind them. Right Craig?"

"Right," Craig mutters, not meeting my eyes, and very carefully keeping his back to Mat. I decide not to mention the fact that there's a mirror right in front of him. Mat doesn't seem to notice Craig's, um, discomfort. 

I manage a few more shenanigans before we're finally finished. Mat, bless his oblivious heart, is happy and jazzed about the exercise and doesn't notice that Craig is practically monosyllabic, communicating in grunts and a lack of eye contact.

Things are tense in the locker room, not that Mat notices. Craig's getting ready to take a quick shower; I figure I'll be gross after a seven hour car trip one way or the other, so I decide to pass. Mat leaves, shucking his bag over his shoulder, saying that he'll run home and change because he's at least 60% sure that Pablo won't burn the place down before he gets there. As the door shuts behind him, I start giggling. 

"Sorry bro," I say, still chucking. "I couldn't help myself-"

Craig, stripped down to boxer briefs that have some very sentimental associates, is on me instantly. He shoves me up against the lockers, one forearm pinning me against them, his other hand clamped on my mouth. All six foot two of him is pressed against me, and he's slick with sweat and breathing a lot harder than the workout ever managed.

"What are you laughing about, you motherfucking _tease_?" Craig snarls. 

"Mnarmble," I say, eyes bright, muffled around his hand.

Before you start calling any advocacy groups or referring me to resources for tiny battered gay boys, relax: all of this is, ah, a pool we dip into every so often. It's an element of Craig he hasn't gotten much use for-he's absurdly gentle, he won't even crush bugs in my bedroom when I'm screaming for their grisly murder, and I get the feeling Smashley, ah, liked to drive- that I'm...a fan of. Sometimes you want something gentle and sweet. Sometimes you want to get hit by a car. A _sex_ car.

When he takes his hand off my mouth, I have time to say, "but really Craig, the  _locker room_ , how stereo-" before he kisses me. Really, that's underselling it. It's a bit more like he's punching my face with his face. I love it. He's making this...low in the throat growling noise that would get me going even  _if_ his cock wasn't grinding against my stomach, burning hot to the touch even through the thin cotton. 

"Shower?" I suggest, when he decides to give my mouth a rest. He responds by biting where my neck reaches my shoulder,  _hard_ ; a non sequitor to be sure, but one that makes me arch my back and hiss through my teeth and try, for a scrambling moment, to climb him like a tree, to get as close to him as possible. 

"Here is fine," Craig says. Yes, I agree. Here, there, anywhere. Just  _right now_. My hands fumble a bit at his waistband. Oh, come on. You try focusing when Craig's looking at you like  _that._

"God _damn_ , Craig."

"Do we have any-"

"Front pocket of my suitcase, in the little zipper section. Boy Scout motto and all."

"Not gonna touch that one, bro," Craig whispers, amused. I've got better things to worry about.  

I respond by biting his ear lobe. Hard. Hey, turnaround is fair play. He makes a stuttering, abortive sound (it might be the word  _fuck_ ) when the door opens.

"Hey guys, one of you needs to let me out oh Jesus Christ I'm sorry," Mat says all in one breath, turning around so fast he gets smacked in the face by the closing door, which he then pushes through really, really fast. 

Craig closes his eyes and bonks his forehead against mine. I let out a laughing sigh.

"Uh, I'm really sorry guys, but I do, uh, kinda need to leave," Mat's voice, tiny and obviously dying of embarrassment, calls plaintively through the door.

Craig and I stare at each other for a long moment, then break apart laughing. 

"Just a sec, Mat," I manage to call out. 

Craig leans against the lockers, and appears to be doing some deep breathing.

"Rain check?" I say.

"Did this hotel we're booked in tonight make us put down a deposit for damages?"

"No," I reply. The last motel near Horne we'd stayed at during move-in day had been all kinds of rude about that broken bed frame.

"Good. I'd hate to have to buy another coffee table. Rain check, you  _total bastard._ "

"Make me work out at five in the morning, will you?" I say. 

"So, uh, bro, how many of our neighbors...?"

"Have walked in on us having sex?" I ask, opening my suitcase to find a t-shirt and jeans. I frown, remembering. Let's see, there was that time we'd left the curtains open and found out the hard way that Robert ducked into my backyard periodically to glean cherries from my tree. There was the time Brian wandered by to borrow a weed whacker when Craig and I were, ahem, repainting his gazebo, I was pretty sure Joseph had  _heard_ us through the door when he'd dropped by a few weeks back to see if we wanted any leftover brownies from the bake sale (and probably stayed to listen and have a wank, the weirdo), and there was the time Damien had walked in on us getting to second and a half base in the dressing cubicle at Dead, Goth and Beyond because Amanda wanted to see if there was anything Delphine would like as a birthday present...

"Congrats, bro. High five," I say, holding up my hand. Craig looks confused, but could no more turn down an opportunity to give a high five than a bird could refuse to fly. We high five, Top Gun style, because we are in our forties and will never again be cool.

"But..."

"We've just gotta get Hugo to walk in on us and we'll have the set!" I say, giving thumbs up. 

"We're bad neighbors, bro. We're really bad neighbors."

"Eh, not like we've got an HOA." 

"...Not really the point," Craig says, faux-sternly, which lasts all of six seconds because he's dying to smile at me, and does. We're finally dressed and getting out of here. We emerge, and Mat seems to be counting the ceiling tiles. He's blushing so hard his cheeks look bruised. 

 

<><><>

 

We adjourn briefly to the Coffee Spoon, because Mat has offered to make us smoothies and provide us snacks for the road trip ahead, including a whole loaf of chocolate chip banana bread that is supposed to be for Amanda but may not make it past the Maple Bay border. Craig has a thing for smoothies; I have a thing for snacks. I think Mat's trying to apologize, which is idiotic, but if his entirely misplaced guilt at interrupting our doin' it results in pastries in my mouth, who am I to deny him his healing process?

"So, uh, you and Craig seem...pretty happy," Mat says awkwardly. One of my favorite parts about Mat is that he's a total dork. I consider myself socially awkward, an opinion shared by basically everyone, but Mat makes me look like the sauvest creature on earth. It's wonderful. I'm having another cup of coffee; Craig is behind the counter assembling his smoothie. There are wizened European _sommeliers_ who would find Craig's smoothie process obsessive and overly involved. 

"What's not to like?" I say, happily. "He can fold a fitted sheet and reach stuff on high shelves. Kinda nice to look at. Warm in the winter."

"Haha," Mat says, and he's blushing again.

"Also the sex is like a natural disaster," I say, because I can't resist. Mat spits up a bit of his coffee and this time starts counting floorboards. 

"I, uh, that kinda brings me to my point..." Mat says. 

"Oh?"

"Well. Um. In the last month, Craig's ex-wife has come into the store two or three times. I think when she's in town picking up the girls? She comes in and gets a cup of coffee and makes polite conversation but then she just looks at me and it's, um..."

"Like you're a mongoose under a cobra's hypnotic sway?" I ask. I have never been on the receiving end of that look, Smashley's carnivore stare, but I have witnessed its effects.

"I swear to God I hear wolves howling when she does it."

"You're in trouble, boy. I'd flee, if I were you."

"Will that save me?" Mat says, lips quirking. 

"Oh, hell no," I say, grinning. "She just likes her prey with some wriggle in it."

"Uh," Mat says. "Wouldn't that be weird...?"

Right, like  _I_ know from weird. "Hold on, I'll check."

"You'll-" I'm pretty sure if Mat blushes any harder he's going to pass out.

"Hey Craig?"

"'Sup?"

"Would it be weird if Mat plows your ex wife?"

"Eh," Craig says, shrugging. "Hey Mat, you got any goji berries?"

Mat bonks his forehead on the little cafe table between us three times, dreadlocks bouncing up and down.

"No, man, we don't have any goji berries," Mat says, voice muffled by the table. 

"It's cool," Craig replies, before he starts the blender. 

"So it's not my imagination?" Mat asks, raising his head.

"Nope."

"That's so weird. I read on one of the gossip sites that she's dating  _Idris Elba."_

"No no, they're just opening a little scotch bar in Kensington together," I reassure him. I've asked. 

On our way out, I drop a twenty in the tip jar. Mat is nice to a fault, and it's usually the only way he'll let any of his neighbors pay for anything. A nice man, Mat. I hope Smashley doesn't destroy him completely. 

 

<><><>

 

The drive to Appletown is almost completely boring. Once you get over the mountains around Maple Bay, it's more or less a straight, five-and-a-half hour shot through boring, snowed-on farmer country. It's been a wet, slushy year, so we keep the speed high and don't have to stop to put on the chains. 

Craig is driving, because he tends to get really, really antsy if he sits down too long, and it's way too cold to stop every forty-five minutes so he can do jumping jacks to scare the jitters away. 

"Don't do it," Craig says, out of nowhere as we're driving through frosted brown hills. 

"Don't do what?" I say, and I look down and realize my hand is in the tote bag containing Amanda's loaf of chocolate chip banana bread. I withdraw it, a little alarmed that my hand has formed a grasping, bread-hungry claw apparently without my knowledge. 

"That's for Amanda," Craig says, glancing at me before returning his eyes to the road.

"Is it, though? Like...existentially? Can a person really  _own_ a pastry?"

"I think you can when someone bakes it special and tells your father to give it to you."

"Semantics," I say.

"You'll feel guilty," Craig reminds me.

"Guilty but stuffed full of chocolate chip banana bread."

"You'll feel bad, bro. You'll look right in her freckled face and realize you stole a present from her, from one of her friends, and the guilt will burn a big hole in your stomach, and you'll spend the whole evening chugging antacids instead of taking advantage of a child free neighbor free hotel room-"

"Fine, damn it, fine," I say, and I toss the tote bag in the back, where it can no longer tempt me with its banana chocolate-chippy goodness. 

A few more miles pass. I manage to snap a picture of a barn with JESUS DIED FOR YOU'RE SINS painted on the side; I plan to show it to Hugo, just to hear that long, world-weary sigh of his. 

"Wait. Was that guilt trip revenge for earlier?"

"Kinda," Craig says serenely. "Besides, you  _will_ feel bad."

"Ugh. Fine. Sorry. I promise this evening will contain twenty-five thousand apology brojobs."

"That's not necessary, four will be plenty," Craig says, grinning. 

 

<><><>

 

The Horne Institute for the Arts is a small school, and it was cold enough in Appletown for the whole campus to look like a frosted white cake. Everywhere you look, there's statues and murals and mosaics by famous alumni. Some of it is a little odd, though, because the Institute prides itself on being anti-establishment. The north wall of Amanda's dorm, for instance, is a breathtakingly beautiful mosaic of some kind of...Cthuloid five-headed octopus monster. Look, I just sign the tuition checks, I don't get to ask questions. 

I pull out my phone to call Amanda, when Craig nudges me. 

"Green combat jacket, six o'clock, he says, pointing. There's a bunch of students gathered around a rather boob-centric mermaid fountain and, sure enough, one of them is...

"AMANDA!" I say, putting my hands over my mouth and bellowing. From fifty feet away, I see her head jerk up; she's sitting on the fountain with, I can't help but notice, a certain lanky ginger beanpole resting his head on her lap. I can see her break into a grin, and she vaults from the fountain, sending ginger flying; apparently, he was napping. 

"DAD!"

To my slight surprise, she grabs both me and Craig, squishing herself between the two of us. Craig's feelings about hugs are identical to his feelings about high-fives, fist-bumps, and ground turkey breast: he is always down. It's something, I realize with a little twinge, that she used to do with Alex and me.

"Oh my god, what are you even  _doing_ here?" Amanda asks, delighted. "The quarter doesn't even end for another two days!"

"Returning the favor," I say, giving her another squeeze before I release her. Craig does the same. "Besides, you think I'm going to miss your very first grown-up exhibition?" 

"Oh, dad, it's not that big a deal! Like, fifty people got in."

"Forty nine of whom are not my pride and joy, the light of my world. I will be just as proud of this as I am of all the drawings still on my fridge, a slideshow of which I have prepared to show all of your fancy art friends-"

"Craig, don't let him show anyone his phone," Amanda says immediately.

"Dunno, they're pretty cute," Craig says. 

"Traitor!" 

"So," I say. "Introduce me."

"Uh, to whom?" Amanda says cagily.

"To your  _boyfriiiiiiiend._ "

"What boyfriend?" Amanda says, innocence itself. She lies about as well as Alex did, which is to say about as well as a four-year old.

"He's gone." Craig says, scanning the crowd around the fountain.

"Damn. Quick like a bunny."

"I'm an adult!" Amanda says, putting her hands on her waist. "Even if I'm dating someone, which I can neither confirm nor deny, it's not any of your business!" 

"Says the girl who tried to lure me onto a Ferris wheel," I say, grinning. "With  _Brian._ "

"Okay well in my defense that was mostly Daisy's idea." 

I scoff, gently. Always a plotter, my Amanda.

"I know the show doesn't start till tomorrow," I say, glancing at my phone. "I figured Craig and I will head to the hotel and chill, then I can swing by and grab you for dinner. Maybe go to that fancy fish place you keep talking about?"

"That'd be great!" Amanda says. She looks at her own phone. "Oh, wait. It's almost three. Delphine's exhibition starts in half an hour, you wanna go? She tells me it's amazing."

I'd rather gargle razor blades, but I can't say no to Amanda when she's looking so happy and excited, it literally causes me physical pain.

"Sure," I say, managing a smile. 

"Here," Craig says, handing Amanda a tote bag. "Fresh baked, from Mat. Says he misses you."

"Oh, awesome!" Amanda says, taking a whiff of the bag. "Let me run this upstairs, and we'll go. We wanna make sure we get good seats!"

I wait until Amanda has scampered off to give Craig A Look. He is not phased. 

"Amanda is right, you are a  _traitor._ "

"I'm playing both sides, bro. I'm like Mata Hari. With a dong," he clarifies. 

"Now we have to sit through Delphine's...thing," I say, burying my face in my hands.

"Maybe it won't be so bad," Craig says.

 

<><><>

 

He's right. It isn't bad; it is, in fact, amazing. 

I know. I'm as shocked as anyone.

We're sitting in the Badal Foundation Performing Arts Center, a little hundred-seat black box theater on campus. Amanda got us seats right in the front, and I will admit to a certain amount of trepidation. I've attended college theater before, you see. 

The theater exhibition is a collection of scenes from students. Five of them do a scene from Mamet that's basically wall-to-wall f-bombs. There's a Shakespeare thing, and what I think is a song from  _Cats_ , though I can't swear to it because everyone was wearing one of those inflatable dinosaur costumes and riding razor scooters around stage. Maybe I just don't understand art. 

The poorly Xeroxed program tells me that Delphine (whose full name is, apparently, Delphinium Murphy-Liebowitz, everyone has a cross to bear) and a Bryan Meyers are doing a scene from something called  _The White Devil._

She's astonishing. She plays Isabella, a woman of pure wrath, and I swear, while she rages and weeps and stalks around the stage, I forget that she's short and round and purple-haired; she seems ten feet tall, beautiful in her rage, her voice and energy filling the theater to bursting. 

"Oh, that I was a man, or that I had power to execute my apprehended wishes!" Delphine snarls, her voice low and poisonous. "I would whip some with scorpions."

"What turn'd fury!" Her scene partner says; a perfectly good actor, I'm sure, but such is Delphine's presence that he really didn't even need to be there. He barely registered. 

Delphine's eyes flash, icy cold, as she rants. "To dig that strumpet's eyes out; let her die, some twenty months a-dying! To cut off her nose and lips, pull out her rotten teeth, preserve her flesh like mummia for trophies of my just anger!" it's as though she could reach out and tear the roof off the theater. Where the  _hell_ was all this hiding? Last time she visited she didn't do anything but sit on the couch and pillage Damien's collection of Naruto fanfic. 

Her voice turns coy and syrupy; I see her scene partner swallow, reflexively, as she approaches, and there is something panther-like about the movement. 

"Sir," she says, and there's something alarming in her gaze that reminds me of Smashley. "Let me borrow of you this one kiss...Henceforth, I'll never lie with you, for this, this wedding ring."

They kiss; the scene ends shortly thereafter. Craig's eyes are wide, Amanda's are wider, and I have goosebumps. 

We applaud, loudly.

"Amanda, what the hell?" I whisper, incredulous.

"She's weird but she's a genius, dad," Amanda says, and for the first time I can see why Amanda puts up with Delphine, above and beyond having to cohabit with her. "She just doesn't care about anything but her work, is all."

"Wow," Craig says, stunned. "Just...wow."

 

<><><>

 

We make our way out the lobby, where Delphine is immediately tackled by Amanda. Delphine, offstage, seems to be doing her best to resemble wallpaper again, though she grins and lets Amanda dance her around a little. Amanda disappears into the crowd, loudly calling about five different names. It makes me so, so happy that she's clearly at home here, though I wonder where she gets it from. I couldn't make friends at gunpoint at her age and Alex wasn't much better.

"Delphine, that was amazing," I say, and I feel the strangest urge to hug her.

She looks...flattered. "Wow, uh, thanks, Mr. Wynne."

"You're really good," Craig says, nodding. Delphine turns lilac to match her hair and doesn't say anything.

"Are your parents here? I'd love to meet them," I say, surprised at myself. Delphine's eyes...slide away from me, and she says nothing.

"Boyfriend, right behind you," Craig says, grabbing my arm. I turn; against the wall, Amanda is standing next to the tall skinny redhead. He's wearing a leather jacket that's more safety pin than leather, and jeans likewise. Were safety pins even a thing anymore?

"Flank them," I say to Craig, and we split up. I push through the crowd to their left, Craig to the right. 

Somehow, though, he's still gone by the time we get there. Amanda looks smug.

"Is he some kind of Irish ninja?" I ask, disgruntled. 

"Who?" Amanda says innocently.

"We're gonna get him eventually," Craig says.

"Wanna bet?" Amanda says, smug. "Not that I have any idea what you might be referring to."

"Daughter..."

"I'm just having fun, dad. You'll meet him eventually. Really eventually," Amanda says. "Now, we getting dinner or what?"

"Soon. I asked Delphine about her parents..." I say, trailing off as I see Amanda wince. "Oh god, did I put my foot in it? Are they...?"

Amanda makes a face. "They're alive. They're just not, like, super stoked that their daughter is here instead of law school. I don't think they, ah, visit her much. She's staying here for the holiday, too."

"Hmm," I say. We push our way out of the theater, and I turn around, catching one last glimpse of Delphine, alone by the water fountain, face buried in her phone.

Hmm.

It's nothing I can worry about now. I have a daughter and a boyfriend to feed, and a truly irresponsible amount of shrimp scampi to eat.

Besides, I think to myself with limited success, she's not  _my_ daughter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I decided that Amanda's college is in Appletown, the fictional city from the mind-meltingly genius comic _Sex Criminals_ , but, uh, I did. So there.
> 
> You should probably read _Sex Criminals._


	6. Exhibition Match, 2/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said this section wasn't going to have any painful emotions in it?
> 
> _I LIED, MOTHERFUCKERS!_

I hate introspection. I hate it.

For one thing, I don't have the right _look_  for it. I know what you're thinking, but it's an unarguable fact that to pull off staring into the middle distance, early in a winter morning, off the balcony of a hotel room, you need to be tale, pale, and seeing the world through the curtain of floppy chestnut curls. Or perhaps you're a De Niro type, grim, grizzled, middle aged, regarding the frosty town beneath you with jaded eyes as you sip absently from a tumbler of gin. I'm tiny, brown, and as for grizzled, maybe I could pull that off if I could grow a full beard at gunpoint, but I cannot. Middle age I've got a handle on, but...

I watch a  _lot_ of television. I know how these things work.

Craig finds me, early in the morning, on the icy balcony, drinking a cup of hotel coffee and wrapped in a hotel bathrobe, feet buried in all three pairs of socks I'd brought for the trip and one of Craig's. 

"Hey bro," he says, and somehow he joins me outside even though he's only wearing a pair of drawstring pants. He doesn't even seem cold.  _How is that even possible or fair._

"Hey," I say, smiling over my shoulder. "There's coffee."

"I saw," Craig says, putting a hand on my shoulder and giving it a shake. "You're up pretty early. You okay?"

"Yeah," I say, reaching up to put my hand on his. No point sharing my bullshit angst first thing in the morning.

"Bro?" Craig asks, after a moment.

"Yes, Craig?"

"You remember that thing we talked about, about how I need to tell you what's bothering me, even if I think it's too dumb to share, because you love me and junk?"

"I recall, yes."

"...Two way street."

"Oh fine," I say, taking a bracing gulp of coffee. "It's about Delphine."

"Thought it might be."

"What? How?"

"Psychic powers," Craig explains, making the universal  _woooo spooky_ gesture, waggling the fingers of his free hand. "Also we've been together for six months and I've known you for twenty-two years."

"I knew I should have found myself a  _dumb_ jock."

"Too late, dude, too late. Spill." 

"I'm feeling... _paternal_ towards her," I say, practically spitting the word. 

"Well, that's an okay way to feel. You're a father. Makes sense on paper."

"Yes, but I'm not Delphine's father. I'm Amanda's father. And the guy your daughters try to bribe to buy them candy bars. And that your one daughter repeatedly throws up on." Damn it, River. Taking advantage of the fact that grown men vomiting on babies to show them who's boss is frowned upon. 

"You can buy Hazel and Briar candy bars. They don't have to bribe you. Do they know that? They should know that."

"Yeah, but it's more fun this way. I've talked it over with Smashley, and we agree that raising them to be identical twin bank robbers would be super cool, so we're trying to acclimate them to corruption."

"Sounds like a good career," Craig says, rolling his eyes. "Really fulfilling the hopes and dreams of a father here." 

"Identical twin neurosurgeons who rob banks on the side?"

"Can they be robbing banks for, like, justice or something?"

"...Sure."

"Deal," Craig says. "So...Delphine."

"Delphine. I feel...really bad for her. Even though she's annoying."

I'm remembering the conversation, in many ways  _the_ conversation, with Craig. When I told him that it wouldn't be selfish to do something for himself, to make room in his life for things besides his daughters and his health and doing for others. I hadn't even been thinking of myself at the time, or him trying to fit me in his schedule. 

After Alex passed, I dedicated my life to my daughter, true. But aside from work, I filled the rest of it with TV and junk food and letting the clock run down. Other people...hadn't really figured.

"Well, maybe you're, ah, opening up to people more. Even the annoying ones."

"Augh," I wail. "But Craig, other people are the  _wooooooooooooorst_."

"Yeah they are, bro. Yeah they are," Craig says, consoling me. 

"She's spending Christmas alone. Isn't that the worst fucking thing?"

"Invite her along. We've got the room," Craig says reasonably. 

I put my face in my hands to stifle my long, wounded cry. I know what I have to do.

"But Craig," I say, voice muffled. "She's...she's so annoying."

"Yeah, but it's Christmas. And you're kind. And your daughter likes her."

"Fine, I'll invite her," I say, dropping my hands to face the day again. "But if she's weird and crazy and burns my house down, I'm moving in with you."

"You're already at my place four nights out of five anyway."

A nice long moment, watching the sun rise.

"You make me a better person," I say abruptly.

"Aww, bro," Craig says, voice warm. "That's sweet. You do too."

"That wasn't a compliment. It was an  _indictment_ ," I growl.

"You wanna get some breakfast? I hear the continental has something called a cheesecake bar." Craig says, in a move of conflict avoidance so deft it resembles Brazilian jiu jitsu. 

"I have never wanted anything so much in all of my life," I say instantly. Was it a long table covered in many different kinds of cheesecake? Maybe some sort of build-your-own station? I don't know, but I need to find out. 

"Good. Get dressed. Imagine how much better it'll taste after we work out," Craig says with an evil little grin, shooting me two thumbs up. He wanders back into the hotel room, chuckling to himself.

I contemplate jumping off the balcony. We're only on the third floor, and if I know Craig, the minute the paramedics splinted my broken legs he'd be at me with a kettlebell, talking about how it was the perfect time to focus on the upper body.

"Coming," I call, surrendering to the inevitable. 

 

<><><>

 

I just want it on record: the cheesecake bar? Total bullshit. It was literally just a cheesecake on a bar, because they served the free breakfast in the attached restaurant. I had two slices, but still. 

College is always weird, I know. Back in the day, I myself committed such crimes against my hair, wardrobe and liver that I'm surprised any of the three forgave me. But Horne...seems a little...extra weird? Possibly I'm just a philistine, but it's a little cold for a Rihanna-themed flash mob in the middle of campus where everyone is wearing silver leotards, isn't it?

"I don't understand young people," I say, either to Craig or to the air generally. 

"You really don't," Craig says serenely. I'd hit him, but I'd have to expose my hands to the air, and it's really freaking  _cold._  

There's some interesting art installations around the place, but we make a beeline for the student gallery, a large shoebox-shaped building made entirely of glass. We're pretty early, so there's not that many parents milling around as yet. We make our way inside, where the warmth is almost sauna-like compared to the outdoors. I give a contented sign.

"Do we need to buy you a better coat?" Craig says, bemused, as my hands slowly, slowly manage to uncram themselves from my armpits. 

"Insulation only works if you produce heat to insulate," I say. "You forget, I am a reptile."

"Buy you a hot rock, got it." 

I texted Amanda to tell her we were at the hall; she texted back a chipper, instant  _on my way!_

We wander around a bit. Wynne's at the ass end of the alphabet, so we get to see all _sorts_ of interesting contributions from students, ranging from the borderline pornographic to the bizarre. I am almost relieved when we reach Amanda's and all the pictures have clothes on. 

Her presentation is twenty-five different pictures, arranged on the wall in a rough spiral. Sort of a personal portfolio - I recognize some scenes from Maple Bay, a shot or two of a retarded looking dog that Amanda insists belongs to Robert, as though he would own anything less perilous to life and limb than a velociraptor. On picture catches my eye - a self portrait, sort of, taken in a mirror, where Amanda's face is completely covered by her battered old Nikon N90. 

"That was Alex's camera," I say, pointing at the picture.

"Dude, I know. Alex never set that thing  _down_ in college," Craig said, reaching down to take my hand, looking nostalgiac and a little sad.

I'm not sure how much I can express how wonderful it is that Craig knew Alex, loved Alex. I don't know why that matters, but it does. Here and there, there's a picture of me - one where you can tell by the glint in my eyes that I'm saying something mean, and one of me and Craig passed out on the couch together, his arm around my shoulders, his head resting on mine. We, like the rest of America, hadn't expected the season finale of  _So Who Wants to be a Pharaoh: Atlantic City_ to be three and a half hours long. 

It doesn't have an Instagram vibe at all, it's too intensely personal. There's a shot or two of Milo, as well, and I smile ruefully to myself; of course, the first time she falls for a boy, she falls hard. I shouldn't have been surprised; I'd met Alex freshman year and known I was going to marry him years before the end of our first study session, where I'd barely been able to say a word to him and he'd left thinking I hated his guts. 

Craig excuses himself to take a call; Smashley, apparently, from the tinny cover of  _Evil Woman_ that plays. I might be biased, but... _fuck,_ my daughter is talented. She must get it from Alex. I've never shown a particular gift besides burning dinner and picking boyfriends. 

I become aware that someone has joined me at Amanda's exhibition, someone not nearly tall or Drakkar Noir-y enough to be Craig. I glance to my right, and freeze. 

Standing beside me is a tiny, elderly Black woman, an old lady classic in a lilac dress and gloves and an improbably fabulous church lady hat, most of a peacock and seed pearls. In my mind she was huge, looming over me, declaring in the voice of an empress what did and did not constitute a marriage, what did and did not count as love. Other than Alex's funeral, I'd met her exactly once, at graduation, where Alex had introduced me. His father, enormous like Alex had been, had been in the process of shaking my hand when Alex, because neither timing nor diplomacy had been his strong points, said,

 _We're getting married, by the way_ , he'd said, holding up his left hand to show the gold band that I could see, now, around Amanda's neck in her self portrait. 

Alex's father had been nonplussed, thought it was a joke, and went volcanic in his rage when it became clear we were serious. Gloria, though, had simply frozen over, her eyes uncaring, unseeing. Ever watch someone decide their son is dead to them? It's a trip, let me tell you.

She doesn't look that way now, though I'm sure she sees the slow-dawning horror of the  _oh fuck, it's her_ on my face. She just looks weary and sad. And old. Really, really old. 

I can't speak. There's literally nothing I can say to her. There's so much hurt and anger and, and, and  _betrayal_ coming to an immediate, white-hot boil inside me that my mouth opens and nothing comes out.   

I wanted to, I don't know. Hug her? Scream at her? Forgive her? Punch her right in the face? I can't bring myself to do any of them so I turn back to the pictures, staring at a blank section of wall like it owed me money. 

"She's quite a girl, isn't she?" Gloria says, and her voice makes my heart bleed, because it's Alex's voice, not as deep, but rich with that Georgia twang that came out when he was really drunk or annoyed. My blood turns to battery acid. I'm not sure I can even  _see._

"Yes," I say, squeezing the words out. "Yes, she is." 

I don't say  _no thanks to you_ , though I think it, along with the ten million other cold, cruel and hideous things I've dreamed about saying to her for eighteen years. I turn on my heels and walk, head down, towards the nearest exit. I swear if there weren't one nearby, I'd throw myself through one of the plate glass windows. 

 

<><><>

 

Amanda finds me later, sitting alone on a bench, smoking a cigarette I'd cadged from a student and staring at a tree. 

"Dad?"

I look up at her and manufacture something that resembles a smile. "Hey, Manda-Panda. Don't tell Craig," I say, taking a long drag. 

"I won't but...you smoke?" She says, sitting down next to me. She looks very subdued. 

"Special occasion," I say, before I remember my manners and rub it out on the bench. 

We're quiet, for a moment. Anyone who knew us would be freaked out, I bet.

"Why didn't you tell me she was going to be here?" I say suddenly. 

"Dad-"

" _Why didn't you tell me she was going to be here?_ " I say, and I feel her recoil. I rarely speak that way to her, but it just slipped out of me. "Shit - fuck- I'm sorry. It...it's nothing. Nothing." 

"I didn't know how," Amanda says, quietly. "I'm, ah, I'm sorry." 

"Nothing to be sorry about," I say, waving this away. "My fault."

 I put my arm around her and she sighs and leans into me. 

"Your show is really amazing, Amanda."

"Thanks. Dad...she says she wishes she had done everything differently. With her son, with you, and I know that doesn't mean much," she says, feeling me stiffen with indignation beside her. "But she's...here now. For me. She's already gone back to her hotel." 

"Could I have just one month without a painful emotional revelation?" I say. "Or even a week. A week where it's just you and me sitting on a couch watching _Bitch Cake: Pastry Girlz_ and eating MSG flavored chicken. Ever since we moved, it's been nothing but..."

Change. Wonderful, horrible, terrifying change.

Change for the better, certainly. I could admit that. Grudgingly. But damn it, it  _hurt._

"Invite Delphine to Christmas," I say suddenly. Amanda giggles.

"Dad, I get you're trying to make up for snapping earlier, but that's kinda overkill-"

"No, invite her. Really. Because she's alone, and her parents and...she's alone. Nobody should spend Christmas on an empty campus."

"Oh," Amanda says quietly. "I'll ask her. I'm sure she'd love to. But, uh, dad..."

"Yes, Amanda?"

"Milo's family is all in England, and he can't afford to fly back..."

"Who's Milo?"

"My boyfriend, dad." 

"You have a boyfriend?" I say, miming elaborate surprise. She punches my arm. Hard. 

"Ow! Uncalled for!" I say, laughing. 

"So...?" Amanda says, expectantly.

I groan, long and loud. 

"Fine.  _Fine._ Milo can stay. But...you and he...I...argh...I..."

Amanda raises an eyebrow. "You're trying to tell me about sleeping arrangements, aren't you."

"No," I say, gritting my teeth. "I am  _trying_ to remember that I am an enlightened, sex-positive, 21st century dad, and that you're on the Pill and an intelligent adult woman in full command of her own body but part of me is just  _DYING_ to tell him that if he lays a hand on you I'll bury him in the cornfield."

"What cornfield?" Amanda says blankly. 

"You know, the cornfield."

"Dad we live in Massachusetts-"

"IT IS A METAPHORICAL CORNFIELD, AMANDA."

Amanda, the dear little smartass, busts up. I start laughing too, and it releases the tension  _way_ more than a cigarette. 

"Ready to head back?" Amanda says, standing up, holding out her hands to haul me up. I realize, then, that we're the same height. Which is short, but it's still alarming. In my mind she's still baby sized. 

"Yeah," I said. 

 

<><><>

 

It's only the next day, when I'm sandwiched between Delphine on my right and Amanda on my left, that I realize I've miscalculated. 

"I think," I say, angry. "That it is a violation of federal, no,  _natural_ law that a man should have to ride bitch in  _his own freaking car!_ " 

"I'm driving," Craig says from the driver's seat, giving me a merry wink in the rearview mirror. Screw you, Cahn. You won't wink your way out of this one.

"I'm the tallest," Milo says quietly, from the front seat. For someone who was four inches shy of seven feet tall, he was the quietest giraffe I'd ever met. I should have guessed Amanda would fall for someone who let her do all the talking. 

"I get carsick if I ride in the middle," Amanda says, nudging me with her elbow. She's such a maniputor, always taking shameless advantage of the fact that I love her more than anything in the universe. 

"I don't wanna," Delphine says, to her phone.

"Just drive," I say darkly. Only three hours to Maple Bay, I think to myself.

"Did you know Milo wants to go bouldering with me?" Craig says, excited.

"What the hell is - no, no. Not going to engage. Drive."

Craig, grinning, obliges. I wonder what I've gotten myself into, before Milo's preferred music, something that sounds like a cross between rockabilly and a honky tonk autopsy, drives all thought from my head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this notion that I'd complete this section before Christmas; and look, it's before Christmas. Ten months before. 
> 
>  
> 
> _You're welcome, gawd._


	7. Exhibition Match, 3/3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas Eve Shindig, and the solving of one of the great Dream Daddy mysteries - what _does_ Ashby do for a living, anyhow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the peerless, much-more-popular-than-me Rassaku and fulldaysdrive for their feedback and encouragement.
> 
> Additional thanks to the lady or gentleman named E in the comments, who I have mentally dubbed Constantine Dragomirov (because my headcanon is that s/he is a brooding Hungarian violin master) for pointing out the desperately obvious fact that Ashby would hardly pass up a guilt trip this good.

After a drive that lasted approximately 35 years (Delphine has a bladder the size of a pistachio, apparently, and Craig  _insisted_ on jogging a few laps around every rest stop) we arrive back in dear slushy Maple Bay. The sea is forbidding and dark, the sky is lead-grey, but there are Christmas wreaths on all the lamp-posts and people hurrying around, red faced and excited, doing the last of their Christmas shopping. It's nice to be home.

We park the car at Craig's and perform a mass exodus, Delphine yawning, Amanda clearly hankering for her own bedroom, and Milo unfolding himself from the front seat like a punk-rock praying mantis. I get out of the car, listening to every individual vertebrae pop and wishing, for a moment, that I could go back in time to whoever invented the concept of the middle seat (Henry Ford, maybe?) and beat him with a claw hammer. 

Smashley answers the door, looking...weirdly prosaic in sweats and a t-shirt, and thrusts a squalling River at Craig the moment he's in range.

"Craig, Ashby, darling Amanda, other people, great to see you, wonderful, so lovely." She says breezily. "Craig, take our children. Take our children before  _I drown them_."

"Rough couple of days?" Craig says, quieting River more or less instantly, bouncing her on his shoulder. River, meeting eyes with me over the broad expanse of Craig's shoulders, shoots me a death glare, all the while making delighted coos and burbles. Up yours, baby. 

"Craigory Olivia Cahn-" Smashley begins.

"Aww, come on, not you too-"

"-Please hurry up and take charge of our offspring before I make headlines as the Maple Bay Child Drowner," Smashley says with exaggerated patience. "I've sent too many people to prison to ever go there myself. They're hyper as hell, I have no idea how-"

I cough guiltily. Smashley's eyes lock on me.

"Did you go over to my place at some point?" I ask, studying my fingernails.

"Yes, this morning, to borrow some DVDS...?"

"Briar and Hazel know where I keep my cereal," I say, cringing. 

"They ate all my cereal?" Amanda says, outraged. 

"Not now, Amanda," I say.

"I am going to my hotel," Smashley announces grimly. "I am going to take a long, hot bath uninterrupted with Disney Channel heart throb factoids, I am going to have some scotch, I am going to take a kidney-popping dose of Excedrin, and if I am interrupted for any reason other than immediate death and dismemberment, I am going straight to City Hall to have this cul-de-sac re-zoned as a dumping ground for medical waste. Do not test me."  

"I don't know who you are but you're my hero," Delphine says, starry eyed. Such is the shit-hot charisma of Smashley that it can pull even Delphine away from her iPhone.

"Not for the next six hours I'm not," Smashley says. "Ex-husband, Homewrecker, Homewrecker Minor, Tank Girl, Shriekbaby and Ginger Telephone Pole, I bid you adieu. See you at dinner." 

We watch her drive off, in varying states of shock. 

" _Tank Girl_?" Delphine asks, confused. 

"She looked really familiar," Milo says.

"She was on the cover of Vanity Fair last month," I reply. "Come on, let's check the damage."

 

<><><>

 

 My house is full of children; somehow, I love it.

Craig and I are upstairs, of course. Craig made dinner for a billion, a chicken and vegetable stir fry that tasted too good to be healthy because he is some kind of _ketogenic warlock_ , and then, moments after the plates were cleared away, there came a knock on the door. Daisy was behind it, throwing herself in Amanda's arms. Carmensita arrived immediately on her heels with a cake, accompanied by Pablo, with a guitar. Not five minutes passed before Lucien arrived, making a beeline for Delphine, the two of them having bonded over a mutual love of  (I can only assume) competitive sullenness. And Chris, for once not in pastels. And Ernest, looking like he'd fallen out of the puberty tree and hit every branch on the way down since I saw him last but smiling sheepishly at the chorus of greetings when he came in. Smashley, Craig and I finished the dishes with lickety speed, got her back to her hotel, made an emergency stop for soda and snacks at the 7-11 and fled upstairs. 

From the sounds, they're destroying my living room, but who cares? It sucked anyway. From the twangy Orientalist theme music blaring through my speakers, Amanda is trying to get everyone to watch her latest obsession,  _Kickboxing Quakers: The Tibet Diaries._ Judging from the amount of loud conversation, without much success.

Not that I care. The space heater is going full blast, River's settled in Amanda's room for the moment with the white noise generator and baby monitor ready for trouble, and I have my lovely, incredible boyfriend to myself for awhile. He's curled around me, breath warm on the back of my neck, and...how did all this happen?

If you'd asked me a couple of years ago, before all this, if I was happy, I'd have said, yeah, sure. I had money in the bank and my daughter and a couch pointed at a large television. That was happiness, right? I guess it's a mercy that I'm only realizing now, in retrospect, with Craig running fingers through my hair and a house stuffed full of people who adore my daughter, and generally think I'm okay, how miserable I was. And for how long.

While preparing dinner, Craig called me quietly to the kitchen and pointed out the window; it was snowing, and Amanda and Milo were kissing in the circle of light from one of my outdoor lamps. When a snowflake settled on her hair I saw Milo gently, reverently brush it off. That's the right attitude, Milo. That's the most precious thing in the entire world you're touching, right there.

You always want your children to be happy, I realized, watching the two of them, but that's not something you can give them. You just have to hope they can go out and find it for themselves. That, and try not to fuck them up too much along the way.

Craig pulled me close and we kissed, in a dirty kitchen to a chorus of  _eeeeeeeeews_ from Briar and Hazel (and a catcall from Smashley), but it felt pretty romantic, all the same.

 "Craig," I say. He responds with a  _Mmyeah_? That I take as a sign of impending sleep.

"How many people are coming over for our Christmas Eve thing tomorrow?"

"Everyone," Craig murmurs into my neck.

"Oh, good," I say with a contented sigh, closing my eyes.

They immediately snap open.

"Wait,  _everyone?_ "

 

<><><>

 

Yes. Everyone.

We host at Craig's house, obviously. It's bigger and cleaner than mine, even before my living room was demolished by Hurricane Tween. Between Ernest's pubertal musk and Lucien's clove cigarettes, I have decided that the drapes and all the soft furnishings are a wash and I'm going to give them a Viking funeral in the backyard. I dispatched Amanda, Hazel, Briar, Milo, Delphine and, for some reason Lucien, who had spent the night for pointedly unspecified reasons, to the store with fifty bucks to grab decorations. Craig and I took my Explorer and loaded it full of groceries and most of a liquor store, since Mary had RSVPed and would undoubtedly drag Robert along. 

"Oh god, it's such a mess," Craig groans, hauling eighteen hundred pounds of groceries through his living room. I glance around. It hasn't been vacuumed in two days and the twins left their coats on the back of the dining room chairs. This is what qualifies as a mess to Craig Cahn, Type A Nutjob. 

"You get cooking," I say gallantly. "I'll take care of this appalling devastation." I start walking towards the cupboard where he keeps the vacuum cleaner. 

"I'll need to use your oven," Craig says from the kitchen.

"Feel free."

"...When was the last time you cleaned it?" Craig says, peering suspiciously at me from the door to the kitchen.

"You're supposed to clean them?" I say blandly. I giggle evilly at the look on his face. "Craig, relax. I barely even use it." True, every time I do, something catches fire, but...

"It's Christmas and I love you," Craig reminds himself. "It's Christmas and I love you."

"Love you too, freakshow. You current on your tetanus shots?" 

I put on a shark documentary for River, watching me with her thousand-yard stare from the playpen. That child is weird. She refuses to watch children's programming, but give her something large and toothy on Animal Planet and she's enthralled for hours. I turn on the vacuum to drown out the narration; I'm  _scared_ of sharks. 

River giggles. She knows, I can tell.  _She knows._

 

<><><>

 

People start trickling in around five. Well, Brian arrives early (because of  _course_ he fucking does) with something on a platter wrapped in foil that smells so good the folks at Cook's would commit seppuku, their work on this Earth done. The house looks great; Amanda dating someone a million and a half feet tall means all the garlands are even for once, bless Milo's stilt legs. 

The house is packed, the tables are full of food, everyone's having a good time. Lot of people I like in the room, along with literally every single one I love. So of course I'm hiding in the kitchen with the rest of Team Antisocial. Me, Mary, Lucien, Milo and Robert, who's slumped on one of Craig's kitchen stools and staring at his phone. Periodically, Craig or Amanda shanghai me out, where I exchange greetings and pleasantries and then immediately retreat. There's a reason I work from home. And...never leave it. 

I end up talking a bit to Milo. A nice kid, it turns out, which is good. Because the cornfield remains an option.

"Great neighborhood," Milo says, drinking apple cider and stooping slightly to avoid the light fixtures. His voice is soft, and his accent is barely noticeable. 

"It is, isn't it?" I say fondly, reaching up to clap him on the shoulder. "Just don't let Joseph get you on a boat or Daisy get you on a Ferris wheel."

"Wait, what?" 

"Something I think we have to establish, Milo my boy," I say, trying to maintain the spirit of the holiday. 

"Oh?"

"Something along the lines of treating my daughter right or I'll do to you what God did to the walls of Jericho, dear lad," I say, giving him an edged grin. "Sorry, I'm her only parent. I do genuinely like you, though."

Milo's lips are pressed tightly together. Is he holding back  _laughter_ , the little ingrate?

"I'll, ah, I'll do that, Mr. Wynne," he says gravely, and even through my annoyance I can see what Amanda likes about him, because his eyes are shining with snark. 

"Something funny, Milo?"

"No, no, just..." Milo restrains himself. "Amanda talks a lot about you, and ah...you're not...very intimidating? At all?"

Damn it. 

"Is that so," I say frostily. Well, we'll see about that.

Amanda arrives and grabs Milo by the wrist; the Emmas must be here, and she wants to show off. 

I consider my options. The three scariest people I've ever met are in the house, but which to choose? Mary would destroy Milo's self esteem, I feel sure, and Smashley would probably have him deported to Svalbard or something. That left option three, who, as luck would have it, is about four feet away.

"Yo, Small." I say.

"What?" Robert says, filled to the brim with Christmas spirit, glancing up from his phone. I take a moment to admire his fetching red reindeer sweater. Mary, sitting on the counter next to him, takes full credit. 

"I need a favor," I say. Robert and I...it's odd. We slept together, that one time, and I always felt like that was a mistake, for all that he'd offered. We're not...friends, exactly, though I feel like we're...friendly acquaintances who fucked one time? Come on, Youtube Generation, you've gotta have a word for this.

"So do I," Robert replies.

"You first."

"My, ah, daughter's in town," Robert says, and his phone buzzes. He looks down, and there's a flash of pure  _panic_ on his face. "Can she come here?"

"Robert, that's great."

"Yeah. Great. Nifty-fuckin'-keeno. Christmas miracle. Can she come over or not?" Robert demands. 

"Dude of course. More the merrier." Over the din of the party, I hear the doorbell ring. 

"That's...her right now, I'm guessing?" I say, grinning at Robert.

"Yeah," Robert says. "I...uh, yeah. Oh, Christ."

"Steady," Mary says, reaching out a French-manicured hand to squeeze Robert's shoulder. 

"Go, go," I say.

"What did you want?" Robert says. "Besides another ride on the Robert-go-Round, which, I mean, if Craig is down-"

"Save it for the spank bank, Bobert. Naw, you know Milo?"

"Ichabod Crane looking motherfucker? Schtupping your daughter?"

I squeeze the bridge of my nose. "My daughter is not...he isn't...look. Can you, ah, scare him a bit? For me?" 

"Sure. Want me to break something?"

"Keep it small, like a toe."

"You got it," Robert says, and deer in the headlights look returns.

"Come one, big man," Mary says, standing up and dragging Robert towards the door. "Look at it this way, if it all goes to shit, you've got more reasons to drink!"

"That's the spirit," I say fondly, watching them leave. 

A few minutes later Amanda comes back, looking a bit stunned. 

"What's wrong?" I ask, not really concerned. I recognize the look from taking her to boy band concerts in the middle school years.

"I just met Robert's daughter, and I think I'm bisexual now," she says, fanning herself.

I glance out into the living room, where Robert appears to be bantering with Even Hotter Penelope Cruz. 

"Goddamn, me too," I say.

"Must be catching," Amanda says.

"I swear to Christ there's something in the water around here."

 

<><><>

 

Later, I've managed to claim a spot on the couch with a plate piled high with sugared meats and fried appetizers. Even Craig cut loose and had a crab cake and two whole glasses of wine, which is a lot for him nowadays. We're snuggling, and Damien is regaling us with...something something Capability Brown something something Great Exhibition. I have no idea what he's talking about, but it's nice to see him happy. My daughter approaches, looking annoyed. We all greet her, Craig's slightly drunk  _Amaaaaaaaaaanda!_ taking about ten seconds. 

"Dad," Amanda says, scowling down at me. I manufacture an expression of purest innocence.

"Yes, my darling daughter, apple of my eye?"

"Do you know what Robert did?"

"You, that one time," Craig says to me,  _giggling_. I wish I could go back in time to show Kegstand Craig his middle-aged self getting goofy on two glasses of wine. I'm pretty sure that'd throw him way more than the 'ends up romantically involved with a dude' thing. 

"Hush, Craig. Did he reconcile with his daughter? Was it beautiful?"

"Dad..."

"Did he compose a poem for the occasion?"

"He pulled a  _switchblade_ on Milo. A switchblade, dad."

"Well, that Robert. He's a loose cannon. A wild card." 

"Wild Turkey!" Craig says, under the impression that he is contributing to the conversation. 

"And I was thinking, maybe you had something to do with it," Amanda says, glaring. She's too cute to glare well, unfortunately. 

"Maybe," I allow. "Life is full of mysteries."

"Dad, not cool!" Amanda says. 

"I'm a dad, I don't have to be cool."

"That's, uh, good, bro," Craig says, sniggering. I elbow him.

"You wanna start something, dad?" Amanda says, and I am alarmed to see a very me-ish glimmer of evil intentions in her eyes. No Amanda, no! Listen not to the dark side! "Because I was thinking - do our friends and neighbors know what you do for a living?"

I sit up, instantly alert. Craig makes a protesting noise.

"Amanda," I say, dead level. "Don't you dare."

"Whatever you say,  _Blodwyn._ "

Craig makes a confused  _eh?_ Damien, though, stiffens next to me.

"Wait," he says, looking from me to Amanda. "Did you say Blodwyn? As in, Blodwyn Honeysuckle? The authoress?" 

"That is  _not a word_ ," I say. "And, uh. Who?"

"Whoops," Amanda says, grinning. "Cat's out of the bag, dad." 

"You're  _Blodwyn Honeysuckle_ _?"_ Damien says, sounding borderline hysterical.

"Um...no...?"

Look. Don't judge me. After Alex died, money got really tight, really quick, and while I have proven so many times over the years that Great American Novels and Oscar Winning Screenplays do not live inside my soul, apparently 20,000 words a week of paranormal romance do. It pays my bills. For the rest of the Hierarchy of Needs, it's why God invented KFC Double Downs and why I eat them. 

"Who's Bloddish Honeybooboo?" Craig asks, fuzzily. 

"She...he's...written over twenty books in one of my favorite...ROBERT!" Damien stands up suddenly, yelling. 

"Amanda, I may never forgive you for this." I say.  

"You started it," she sing-songs. 

"WHAT!" Robert bellows even though it turns out he's about six feet away. 

"ASHBY IS BLODWYN HONEYSUCKLE."

"What? No shit? You write all the horny ghost books?" Robert says, eyes widening. 

"I think that's a little reductive," I say stiffly.

"That's - MARY! MARY! ASHBY WRITES ALL THOSE GHOST FUCKIN' BOOKS JOSEPH KEEPS STEALING FROM YA'!" Robert, of course, yells.

"Never forgiven. You are non-forgiven, unto eternity," I say to Amanda, who is hugging herself, shaking with laughter. 

"You told me you edit cookbooks for a living," Craig says, sounding hurt.

"Yeah, and it kind of hurts my feelings that you never realized that was bullshit," I say. "I can't cook for beans, Craig."

"I have to go," Damien says suddenly, eyes alight. He charges out the door. Well, departs with a dramatic swirl of cape, but that counts for Damien. 

I bury my face in my hands. 

"Hey hey," Craig says, draping his giant drunk carcass over me. "I still love you even if you write lonely housewife porn."

" _I do not write_ -"

Right on schedule, the Lonely Housewife herself wanders up, smirking over a glass of wine. 

"Melisande, I mean Mary, how nice of you to join us," I say. 

"You have hidden depths, Ashby," Mary says, as Robert immediately claims Damien's vacated seat.

"I really don't," I say honestly.

"So in book twelve, with the whatchacallit, the sexy werewolf fuckboy-" Robert says, and if there's anything more terrifying than Robert all angsty and rock star disinterested, it's Robert full of enthusiasm.

"You're thinking of book thirteen,  _The Poolboy's Lament._ Book twelve is  _An Embarrassment of Witches,_ " Mary chimes in. How many times have they...?

"Yeah, whatever, but what the hell was Meredith thinking-"

"My work here is done," Amanda says.

"So's your time on earth," I say grumpily, but honestly, I'm not that mad. For one thing, Robert, the coolest person I know, has apparently memorized every book I ever wrote. That's pretty cool, right? Mary's not sassing me any harder than usual. If this is as bad as it gets, I'm okay with it.

 

<><><>

 

Okay, universe. Never listen to me. Because things  _can always get worse._

Damien arrives back, red-cheeked from the cold, wearing a shirt incrementally flouncier than what he was wearing before. He has some kind of mini harp thing that he thrusts at Lucien, and in his other hand is an elegantly bound cover of...

Oh god, no. 

Of all the books, of  _course_ Damien's favorite is the one I wrote as a slump-buster, when the house payment was coming due and Amanda needed braces and another pair of $200 shoes every ten or fifteen minutes for some reason. Look, I'm...uh, proud of my work, but we've all got ups and downs, and  _The Ghost Lover: Spectral Passion Unchained_ is one of the downs. The way, way downs.  _50 Shades_ was the book of choice for the horny proles, so my publisher told me to add more whips and chains and, well, I like money.  

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen," Damien intones, voice deep and melodious. Have I said I like Damien? Just kidding, he sucks. And not like a vampire, because that would undoubtedly turn the filthy turncoat on. 

My neighbors, various shades of drunk, turn their attention obligingly to Damien, who is standing on Craig's ottoman, a glass of wine in his hands. He must have brought it from home, because it was red, and all we'd bought was white. 

"My dear friends, I would like to thank our hosts, Craig and Ashby, for being so welcoming this Christmas eve."

"You're  _ever_ so welcome," I say. 

"It has come to my attention that we have an  _artiste_ in our midst," Damien says. "Our very own Ashby-"

"I KNOW HIM," Craig says.

"Thanks Craig," I say, pushing him back down on the couch.

"WE'RE TOTALLY FRIENDS."

"Here, have some more wine."

"Sure," Craig says happily. 

"-Is the creator, writer, poet,  _genius_ behind this fine work of the literary art-"

I look around desperately. Is there a fire escape I can pull? An actual fire I can start? A gun, so I can put the barrel in my mouth and send myself home to Jesus?

"And I thought, to honor the occasion and our handsome host," Damien says, with an evil smile. "That we would do a little reading."

"That's not really necessary-"

"Ahem," Damien says. He lets it hang expectantly in the air, before he turns to his son. "Lucien?"

Lucien sighs, and holds up the lyre.

"Sunovabitch," Lucien says, and begins to strum it, dramatically.

" _'Proserpina, her eyes inflamed with fiery desire, faced her ghostly lover across the table, smote by the burning hunger in his star-like eyes-'"_

"SKIP TO A PART WITH TITS," Robert yells. Why is everyone yelling? It's a small room.

"There are children here," Damien says primly. 

"THEY'VE SEEN 'EM."

"' _His spectral hand caressed her heaving bosom with gentle firmness, like the icy touch of a flower-bedecked grave and of a lover all at once. His eyes were burning stars, filled with gleaming oceans of desire."_

 "That's a mixed metaphor," Hugo says from the punch bowl.

"Yeah well take a shot," I mutter darkly. 

"' _Take me, Lord Ruthven, Proserpina said breathlessly-'"_ Damien says in a breathless falsetto.

"Oh come on," says Delphine, muscling her way through the crowd. "That won't do. Tell you what, I'll do Proserpina's lines."

"Alright," Damien says obligingly, making room on the ottoman for her to stand beside him. 

"Where's this chick from?" Delphine says, all business.

"Savannah, Georgia," I say, pouring myself another glass of wine. 

"Lame." Delphine clears her throat, adjusts her posture, and goes from zero to Blanche DuBois in no time flat.

"' _Take me, ghost stallion,'"_ Delphine says, hand clutched to her breasts, swooning as much as her perch will allow. 

"He's a horse?" Craig asks, confused.

"Sure," I say. "Wait, did you drink my wine?"

"Ayup," Craig says. 

"' _Show me love on the Other Side!"'_  

"Like, butt stuff?" Ernest says, wrinkling his nose. 

"I think more like the afterlife," Hugo replies.

"THEY DO BUTT STUFF THIS CHAPTER THOUGH!" Robert crows. 

"Is Robert drunk?" I whisper to Mary. Val, on the other side of the room, is laughing hysterically. 

"No, this is about par," Mary whispers back. 

It only feels like it lasts forever. They only get through a paragraph or two, and the line about 'love's throbbing scepter finding its way home like a seagull to the sea' so infuriated Hugo that he promised to chain me to a desk and make me diagram that sentence.

"That's not really my scene, Hugo, but thanks," I say. 

By the end of it, I'm blushing so hard my cheeks feel bruised and everyone is having a good old fashioned laugh at my expense. God, I convince one borderline personality to pull a switchblade on my daughter's boyfriend and  _this_ is how she repays me?

"Oh come on, dad," Amanda says. "It's a party!"

"It's  _your funeral._ "

"Oh, come on, this is better than I ever dreamed." Amanda says, grinning unrepentantly.

"Amanda, prepare yourself. I'm about to guilt trip you." 

"Oh god-" Amanda says, looking alarmed. I crack my knuckles, calling on my Catholic School education.

"That book? The hilarious one? Paid for your braces. You'd have a mouth like a broken picket fence if not for that book." I say, grinning a bit. 

"Oh god," Amanda says, swallowing.

"Remember your Europe trip, sophomore year? The sequel paid for that. And the new engine in my Explorer, which I used  _so many times_ to take you and your friends to ice skate, or to parks, or to the mall..."

"I surrender, I surrender," Amanda cries.

"And, you know, the one I just sent off to the editor? It's called  _The Lord of Drearyshire Manor: The Love Haunting_? Well, it's paying for this semester at college."

"Auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh," Amanda says. 'Daaaaaaaaaad!"

"I'm still the top dog in this house, Manda Panda," I say smugly. 

"Ugh.  _Ugh._ " Amanda says. "Truce?"

"Truce. I, ah, sorry about the Robert thing. But Milo said I wasn't intimidating."

"You're super scary bro," Craig says happily, staring at the ceiling. "Like a...really angry Pikachu."

"I don't know what that means," I tell Craig crossly. "No, don't tell me. Respect my lifestyle decision." 

Amanda makes a face at me. I stick my tongue out at her. While this meeting of the minds occurs, Brian wanders up, looking genial as hell. 

"You know, I've never been able to string two words together," Brian says, red faced from the punch.

Against my will, I brighten slightly. "Really?"

"Nope! I tried. Could never do what you do," Brian says, chuckling. "You've got a gift."

"I try to use it exclusively for evil," I say as Brian wanders off. Amanda is grinning at me, from the sidelines. 

"You are still on my shit list for the next...five minutes," I say judiciously. 

"Gotcha. More pizza rolls?"

"Please."

 

<><><>

 

I should be cleaning up, after the party, but I'm too tired to move. The kids have mostly wandered off to bed, so the living room is Old People City, just me, Craig, and Smashly on the couch. Craig has his arm around both of us, and we're both squished up against him. It's dark; the only lights are from the kitchen, and the strings of colored lights on the porch.

"This is weird," I say.

"Little bit, yeah," Smashley says, voice foggy.

"S'not weird," Craig insists, with a contented sigh. "Two favorite people. My two favorite people,  _in the world._ This...this is the best place, bro. Bros." He actually sounds choked up, the sap. A few moments later he's out like a light.

"If he's _actually_ this wholesome, how did he end up with two people who are, let's be honest, basically pure evil?" Smashley asks. Rhetorically, I'm sure. I decide to ignore this

"I'm not evil," I protest.

"Didn't you once bully a barista so badly they joined the Army?"

"That was two years ago, I'll have you know. And it was the National Guard. You made that skinny girl in spin class cry.  _Multiple times._ "

"Craig told you that?"

"Craig tells me everything," I say. "Like how you collect porcelain Precious Moments figurines. Oh, and you had a sexy dream about the two of you, me, and Alex having a pansexual foursome in college."

"That wasn't a dream, it was a  _plan_. One I'd still be down for if Alex hadn't, you know, died."

"He always was inconsiderate that way."

"What a douche."

We giggle. Gallows humor, amirite folks?

Smashley's phone buzzes; Uber. She gives me and Craig a kiss on the forehead and heads out. She pauses, at the door, and her smile is literally the gentlest expression I've ever seen on her face. 

"Merry Christmas, boys," she says, shutting the door behind her. I check the clock; it's after midnight. 

"Craig?" I say, giving him a poke. "It's Christmas, bud. C'mon, let's go to bed."

Craig...basically tackles me, and I'm completely pinned to the sofa, his fat head resting on my chest. 

"Here's fine," Craig says, grabbing a big handful of my shirt and closing his eyes.

"But...bed..."

"Best place," Craig says, and he's instantly asleep again. 

I'm not long behind him. I spend awhile looking at him, though, in the dim colored glow from the Christmas lights outside. 


	8. Deliberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FLASHBACK! Please provide your own swirly harp music, I can't do everything for you.
> 
> Ashby and Amanda, between Date 2 and Date 3.

My laptop stares at me, like the baleful eye of some all-seeing deity. I've got Word open, and the page is empty, as it has been for most of a week. Because instead of doing my job, I've mostly been staring at the blank screen thinking about Craig fucking Cahn, Fitness God, Superdad, Former Roomie and person that I am...

Oh god. Oh Christ. Person that I am stupidly,  _hopelessly_ in love with.

"Auuuuuuuuuuuuugh!" I cry, head in my hands. "Why am I so fucking  _duuuuuuuuuuuuumb?!"_

I look up at Alex's picture over my desk, and even  _he_ looks unimpressed. There's no point in pulling the tragic widower routine either, because I know exactly what Alex would tell me to do. He'd tell me to _get that dick_ , by any means necessary. I'm sure he's in Heaven getting shitfaced with Rock Hudson and James Dean and boring them to tears about what an idiot I am. It's true. I am the dumbest man alive, and you'd think I would have remembered the cardinal rule. I'm forty one years old, and I can't remember  _that falling in love with the straight boy is a stupid thing to do._

But there'd been a moment, damn it, I know there was. We'd been crouched on either side of River, cooing with delight over being reunited with her beloved capybara, and he'd been, like, two inches from my face, flushed from the heat and...something else, and his eyes met mine and he smiled that  _stupid_  crooked smile that made my chest hurt and I swear, in that moment, it was like the voice of the universe itself bellowing in my ears:  **kiss him, dumbass.**

I didn't. Of course I didn't. But I wasn't imagining things, right? Because of  _course_ the sweetest, kindest, hottest person in Massachusetts was even now longing for the same-sex embrace of his bony-assed former roommate instead of, say, sleeping hamsterlike atop a fucked-out pile of Maple Bay's hottest cougars. That is an idea that had real narrative plausibility. I hear a snap and glance down; I've broken another pencil. I add it to the pile. 

"Okay," I say, gathering myself, taking a slurp of the green tea (that Craig gave me) cooling in a mug on my desk. It tastes like grass clippings, but it's a superfood, bro. Heart healthy. Shut _up_ , Craig. 

The screen is still blank. I make money because I publish a lot of books, not because they're bestsellers. I miss a deadline, and Amanda will have to drop out of Horne, I'll lose the house, and I'll become an opium addict on the streets of Boston and Amanda will become a stripper. Work, Ashby, work. It's not like you haven't written about Proserpina getting ghost-railed like ten thousand times.

I manage maybe a paragraph before the voice returns.

_You should text Craig._

No. He's busy. I'm busy. 

_Teeeeeext hiiiiiiiim._

I'm trying to work here, Id. Contrary to what that degenerate ratfucker from  _Romance Digest_ said, my books do not write themselves.  

_Go on Dadbook and look at his pictures again. You know, the one where his shirt's riding up and you can see the waistband of his underwear._

No.

_Maybe that one where you can see his fancy little hip groove?_

How about the one where he's surrounded by his fancy little wife and children, because he is  _straight_ _?_

I look at the screen, and see three paragraphs of gibberish. Even more so than usual. I scowl at the ice-cold mug of tea. Heart healthy or not, I'm gonna pour this shit in the sink and drink some half-and-half. If a have a massive coronary, after all, I won't be able to sit here and think about Craig!

I make it to the kitchen and pour the lawn trimmings down the sink. What's the least healthy liquid in the house? Besides the drain cleaner under the sink. I debate the merits of drinking soy sauce straight from the bottle. I'm so distracted by reading the sodium on the back of the bottle (Craig says guys our age need to watch our intake) that I don't realize that my other hand has, of its own fiendish volition, pulled my phone out of my pocket and texted Craig. 

_Had fun the other day! Arnold still present and accounted for?_

My phone buzzes. Craig, texting back instantly.

_Yeah bro! Crisis averted. Thanks for the help. ;D_

He texted back right away. That's a sign, right? That means something. I don't know what the semicolon D thing means but I'm sure Amanda can fill me in. 

Yes, it means you have apparently become a twelve year old  _girl_ , Ashby.

My phone buzzes. Craig.

_Gym tomorrow?_

He wants to go the gym with me! _That_ means something, right? Of course, he wants to take everyone to the gym. He invited Amanda once and was greeted by laughter verging on hysteria. He wants to take  _Mary_   _and Robert_ to the gym. It means nothing, you infatuated putz. 

Robert, now there's an idea. Maybe doing the self-loathing tango with Maple Bay's most eligible alcoholic again will drive thoughts of Craig from my mind. Only the sure knowledge that this plan ranks just beneath Russian Land War in Winter in the Bad Idea Hall of Fame prevents me from opening up Dadbook and taking that step towards oblivion. 

_Sure sure! Go easy on me._

Buzz buzz. 

_No chance bro. Gonna work you hard!_

Oh, _Christ_. If only. If there were any mercy in our cruel, empty universe I'd have your breath in my ear, hands gripping my hips almost hard enough to bruise, panting my name, slick with sweat like you are after a hard workout, and...

I take two steps to the left, raise my hand, and punch my refrigerator. Hard.   

Which _hurts_ , because it's made of metal. The fridge, not my hand, which is made of tiny gay old man meat. It hurts a  _lot_.

"Fuck fuck damn fuck shit damn fuck," I howl, running my hand under a cold tap. It works, though. I haven't  thought about Craig in four whole seconds. 

_Maybe you can get him to kiss it and make it better again, you tiny scheming man-clown._

"Shut up, you," I growl.

 _River would give you that_ look _again._

"I said shut up!"

"...Dad?" 

I turn. Amanda is staring at me like I'm a dog she's not sure she wants to pet.

"Oh, uh...hey Manda Panda," I say, nonchalance personified. It's not convincing. I know it, I acknowledge it, I own it.

"Hey dad," she says warily. "You, uh, okay in here?"

"Yes of course," I say. "When did you get home?"

"Like...two hours ago, dad."

"Sorry. Been working. Busy busy!" I say, false sunshine radiating from my pores. 

She gives this statement the fishy stare it deserves. Amanda, though, has developed Tact.

"You hungry? I was thinking Chinese tonight," Amanda says.

"Yes, oh god, yes," I say automatically. If I can't gorge myself on Craig, I can at least gorge myself on sweet and sour pork the color of strip club signage and spicy chili noodles. 

Amanda grabs the house phone, and dials the number for Spicy Chang's Fried China from memory.

"Hey Tuan. Yeah, it's me. How're the kids? No, he's still being weird. Yeah, we'll take the full self-pity special..." Amanda shoots me an unexpected wink as she wanders out of the kitchen, still gossiping.

Maple Bay's cholesterol mafia knows way too much about my personal life. 

 

<><><>

 

Until very recently, this is all I wanted from life. Me, my daughter, my couch, and three different flavors of sugared meat in sauce, along with fried rice and enough chili noodles to mummify myself. We just finished an episode of  _Are You Smarter Than a Desert Taipan?,_ watching the contestant receive defibrillation over the closing credits because, as it turned out, he was not.  Amanda is nestled into my side, under my arm, and I've got a double order of crispy potstickers balanced on my knee. Perfection. And yet...

I have recently become aware that I still miss the other arm. I feel Alex's absence sharply, in a way that hasn't cropped up in years. Except it's not Alex I miss (of course it is. I would give anything - no. Been over this ground so many times it's hard as rock, nothing will grow) it's the feeling of having...someone at my back. It's been me, just me, for so long, I guess I just forgot what it felt like to have anyone else _there._ I've managed by myself, sometimes by the tip of my fingernails, for so long that I've forgotten to even want someone. In the early years, it felt like a betrayal of Alex, of everything we had together. Later, it felt like a betrayal of Amanda. Like going to the universe and saying, yes, thank you for the most perfect daughter in creation, but she's not enough for me. How about a boyfriend?

Craig could be a partner, I think to myself. 

Of course he can, you fucking moron, because he  _already is one_. 

"Dad," Amanda says.

"Yes, sweet child?"

"Potsticker me."

I obligingly hold one out. She bites it out of my hand like a snapping turtle. 

But Amanda's eighteen. She's off to college. And the thought of a lot of long, empty nights on my long, empty couch is suddenly something that causes me acute anxiety.

"Is that guy gonna...die?" Amanda asks as we watch the credits roll.

"If he does, he deserves to. How do you lose a celebrity trivia challenge against a friggin'  _snake?_ "

The show ends with a heartfelt plea from the American Herpetological Society, hustling for donations. God, the AHS is the biggest racket. Lowest ranked of all the snake and venomous reptile charities.

"You ready to talk yet?" Amanda asks. 

"About what?"

She responds with great maturity, poking me several times in the belly. The potstickers go flying; ah well, that carpet was going to become a grease pit eventually. 

"Ack, Amanda, I'm full of chili noodles-"

"Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me-"

"You are not the - ARGH-  _boss_ of me, child-"

"The Hell I'm not, you will  _talk_ -"

"Language-"

Amanda makes a frustrated noise, and dislodges herself from the couch. 

"Fine. I'm bringing out the big guns," she says, stomping off to the kitchen. I put the potstickers back in their container, eating one absently. Hey, ten minute rule. 

She comes back a few minutes later with two huge mugs, topped with wavering towers of whipped cream. The big guns, indeed.

"I remember, dad always made you hot chocolate when you were being weird. Which was always, but I figured I'd give it a shot," she plunks one down on the table in front of me. The whipped cream tower wobbles.

Alex had learned fairly early into our relationship that the fastest way to my heart and parts beyond was sugar and fat. Three dates in and he'd started keeping honey roasted peanuts in his coat in case I started getting hangry, hitchy or, his least favorite, hunty. 

I decide not to mention that Alex had usually crushed a couple of my Klonopin and mixed it with the syrup. I've managed to keep my prescriptions off her radar and I plan to keep it that way, thanks.

"You are a good daughter," I allow, taking a slurp. I'm sure there's whipped cream all over my face, which is Tradition in the Wynne household. Amanda looks like I'm about to teach her to shave.

"I know," she says matter-of-factly. "Now. Spill."

"It..." I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut. "Sweetheart, I appreciate this, but it's something I think...you may not be ready to hear about."

"You're in love with someone."

"It might be hard for you to - wait, what?" I say, flushing purple. Amanda sees it, and grins. 

"Ha! I knew it!" she crows. 

"How did you  _know_ _,_ you witch?"

"Are you kidding me? You've been moping around the house like one of your romance novel heroines all freaking week. Oh,  _la_ ," she swoons, hand to her forehead. "Which of you stalwart young bucks will catch my fall!?"

"Daughter, you seem to be mistaking me for Dolly Parton. I know, easy mistake."

"Who?" Amanda asks, wrinkling her nose. Children. "Dad. I love you. I want you to be happy. Do I really have to spell that out for you?"

"Apparently."

"Ah...who is it?" Amanda asks, biting her lower lip.

I sigh, and take another bracing gulp of the coco. From the poisonous sweetness of it, Amanda used at least twelve scoops of the mix. A genius, she is. 

"Craig," I admit in a slightly choked whisper. "I know, it's so dumb, but-"

"Yes!" Amanda says, pumping her fist in the air. "Lucien owes me twenty bucks!"

"...I beg your pardon?"

"Don't worry about it. Dude - dad - Craig  _totally_ likes you." 

"Craig  _totally likes_ all of God's creatures. He's the nicest man on earth." I say. "And I mean...if he's even into...how could he not do better? There's muscle bros at the gym who would prison-shiv each other for a chance at him. He  _doesn't even notice._ "

"He couldn't do better," Amanda says firmly.

"I-"

"Dad. Listen to me, very carefully, because I am eighteen and entrenched in post-post-post-post irony and I am using up probably my entire years worth of sincerity for this, but he couldn't do better. Nobody could do better. Because you are the best. You're the best one, and I don't care how many softball moms or muscle freaks or skinny gym bitches-"

"Language...!"

"I'm just saying. He can't possibly do better."

My eyes aren't watering. Don't be silly. 

"You always seem determined to see your old man cry," I manage. 

"You're an easy mark," Amanda says. She punches me softly on the shoulder.

"And you'd be...okay? With that?" 

"Ohmigawd, dad,  _yes._ " Amanda says, rolling her eyes, exasperated. "I was afraid you were going to tell me you had it bad for  _Mr. Vega_."

"What, your teacher?" I wrinkle my nose. "And saddle you with Ernest as a stepbrother? I could never be so cruel."

"Aww, Ernest is okay," Amanda says. "Needs a shower. Possibly showers, plural."

"Showers and a shock collar," I mutter.

"I'd say, in my expertise, that if you wanna land him-"

"Amanda," I say, as, instantly, a migraine threatens. "I should tell you that I am in no way prepared for my teenage daughter to give me sex advice."

"I  _wasn't,_ " Amanda says, equal parts amused and disgusted. "I'd say, get him away from his...Ultra Dad Zone and put the smooch on him. Or, talk about your weird old feelings like grownups, I dunno. The only boy I ever liked was dating that Britpop loving superskank Emma R. behind my back the whole time. What do I know."

"He's mentioned wanting to go camping," I say slowly. 

"Ew, camping."

"Double that ew and add an ick. It's like people forget the entire march of human civilization was one ten thousand year attempt to get as far the fu - the fudge away from nature as possible." I...don't start plotting. I've never been much for plotting.

Does it matter if I get what I want? He's still an amazing person. He's still my best friend. He's still hotter than solar fusion. Whatever he can offer me, I'll take, and count myself lucky. 

It's more than the softball moms get, for one.

"How did you grow so wise, Amanda?" I say, draining the last of my hot chocolate to the chalky dregs.

"I think it's all the mushrooms we teens like to go eat in the woods."

"That must be it."

 

<><><>

 

"Good job today, bro," Craig says as we leave the locker room. I yawn, stretching, trying not to make the tweak in my neck too obvious. 

"You lie like a rug, Cahn," I say. "You have strained muscles I forgot I had. My entire body is  _swearing_ at me. In  _German._ "

"Want a smoothie?" Craig says, grinning at me. We stop in the lobby, where they have a little juice bar during the peak hours. 

"Sure," I say, trying my hardest not to beam at him.

"Two Green Blasts, please," he says to the barista.

"Bah," River says, from her baby harness. Don't judge my game, baby. What do you know. 

"I can't  _believe_ I let you talk me into this."

"It's getting easier though," Craig says, confidently. He's just  _standing_ there, completely oblivious to the fact that the pretty girl behind the counter, and two older ladies in knockoff Juicy sweats at the smoothie bar, and Jerome the towel boy, and the dude over by the bench who should really be paying more attention to the guy he's supposed be spotting are staring at him with feral expressions, like they're moments away from jumping him  _en masse_ and tearing his clothes off like the Brides of Dionysus.

He's completely oblivious to them, because he's looking at me. 

It occurs to me that the expression on his face is a labradoresque, equally moronic copy of the one I know is on mine.

Because he's looking at me.

"Neck bothering you?" he asks.

"Yeah, twinged it, I think," I say. 

"Here," he says, stepping close. He's got long arms, he doesn't need to be that close. His hand, strong enough to crush skulls, closes on the space between my neck and shoulders and applies pressure at that perfect edge right before it would hurt and fuck, nobody told me that was an erogenous zone. The things they don't tell you in health class. My eyelids flutter. 

"Is, ah, that better?" he asks, and his voice is...weird. A little rough around the edges? 

"Yeah," I say, and on a wild impulse I reach up and rest a hand on the back of his. "Feels good."

"Bro-" he manages, and there are red spots on his cheeks and his breath hitches in his chest and suddenly, it's  _there._ The Voice of the Universe again, back and more insistent than ever that this is the  _perfect_ time to kiss him, right there in front of Smoothie Girl and the Juicy Bitches and Jerome the Towel Boy and God. I'm going to do it. I swear, I'm going to do it. 

"Two Green Blasts," Smoothie Girl says brusquely, slamming them down on the counter.

Craig...jumps. There's no other word for it. He's suddenly six feet away, blushing furiously, and holding his smoothie.

"I, ah, need to get to work!" he says. 

"Yes. Me too." Right, Wynne. Like you're going to accomplish  _anything_ today. 

He's heading out the door. He's heading out the door-

"Hey, Craig?"

"Yeah bro?" he says, pausing halfway out the door, and he gives me that goofy, head-trauma-victim grin again. 

"We've talked about going camping. We - we should do that. Soon."

"I'd have to arrange things with Sma - yeah. Let's ah, do that."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"...Yeah."

"Yeah."

There's four people waiting for the door behind Craig. He doesn't notice.

River meets my eyes, narrows them, and starts to fuss, right on cue.

"Whoops, gotta go. I'll text you," Craig says, and he's gone. Yes, I watch him go, because why the hell wouldn't I.

"You want your smoothie or not?" Smoothie Girl demands. I turn back to her, and realize that she's decided to skip glaring daggers at me, and is instead glaring machetes. 

"Sorry," I say, grabbing my smoothie. It tastes a lot better than it should.

I slap a five dollar bill down on the counter as a tip, smiling brightly at her, because I am the Devil. Poor thing deserves _something_ for her trouble.

I can feel her, and everyone else in the lobby staring after me, in disbelief or murderous rage. I could get used to this feeling.

It's almost worth a camping trip.


	9. Pining, Like the Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well bugger my bumblebee's bread bin, what's this!?! A _Craig_ viewpoint chapter!?
> 
> Takes place between Date 2 and Date 3, directly following _Deliberation_.

Okay. So...what the hell.

_What the actual hell, bro._

Craig is not a man used to uncertainty. At least, not with regards to things that had always seemed pretty...certain? It had been Smashley (and therefore, y'know, women? He liked women? Right? Wasn't that how that worked?) for so long, for like,  _twenty years,_ and now...

And now...

...What, exactly?

He's always  _liked_ Ashby, for being tiny and ferocious and taking exactly no crap from anybody, like one of those cats that scares off alligators. For being the best bro, in a clawed, backhanded kind of way. For his devotion to his friends, his daughter. Alex. For the way he'd carve his liver out for one of the people he cared about and never think twice. Craig had nearly been expelled back in college for kicking a classmate in the balls, for asking Craig  _how can you share a room with that weird little faggot?_ Craig isn't and wasn't an angry person, but he still didn't regret that one even a tiny bit.

He'd even thought Ashby was cute, back in his college days, like an angry little dog that nobody could pet. Craig is secure enough to look at a guy and tell him he has nice obliques. Or look at his roomie and think  _aww, lookit the little guy, just wanna ruffle his hair and borrow his biology notes._ This was...different. This feels a whole lot like the first time Smashley took off her top and Craig heard the Voice of God. 

But when Ashby crouched on the other side of River, having gone absolutely  _banana crackers_ in his quest to restore Arnold to his rightful place by River's side, and had...smiled without any of the ugly down-on-himself attitude he rocks way too often (and makes Craig wanna smack him upside the head, but, y'know, supportively), without any guards up, and...

All of a sudden it was like Craig was little kid again, pointing to a puppy in the store and going  _Dad, I want_ that _one._

Craig functions on autopilot, changing River's wet diaper, spooning some bright orange mashed yams into her hungry gob. He talks back to her, and even distracted it amazes him that the noises she makes are coming closer and closer to speech,  _will_ be speech soon, which never stops being _the coolest thing ever_ no matter how many times he sees it. But his brain feels like it's  _boiling._

He does all the things that normally calm him down. Jumping jacks. Cleaning the windowsills. Steaming the couch upholstery. He sticks the pull-up bar into the doorframe of his bedroom and does one-handers until his deltoids are screaming. Even grilling up this week's boneless skinless chicken breasts with cracked pepper and lemon and garlic powder doesn't help, and Craig  _loves_ chicken breast.

How do you go from  _I love you, bro_ to  _no, seriously,_ I love you, _bro, let's make out_? He wants to...he barely knows how that would even work, he's never even wondered, about being with another guy. Though he'd walked in on Alex and Ashby enough back in college to have some ideas he's suddenly eager to try.

Which is weird. This whole thing is weird.

"This whole thing is weird, River," he says, lowering her into her crib for a nap. 

"Bah," River responds, and she looks exactly like Smashley does when Craig's being stupid. Sometimes he wonders if he, like, has any genes whatsoever. 

It's different, he doesn't know how it's different. He's used to people flirting with him. Heck, Smashley had said it was practically her full time job, defending her turf from, in her words,  _a world of panting, thirsty-ass bitches_. He's learned to tune it out and ignore it. Women, married women, men, whatever. He knows a thousand ways to deflect it, because he's not interested. When people spend so much time gunning for you, ignoring everything above the shoulders it becomes...kinda degrading? 

Ashby wants him. Wants him bad. Craig knows that. But he somehow doesn't think Ashby's looking for a conquest, or a meal ticket, or a bang, or whatever. Ashby wants... _him_. For some reason Ashby's eyes going hot when Craig - okay, Cahn, admit it to yourself - teases him is...kind of a turn on. Instead of being part of the background noise of his life. 

But it wasn't just the bod, was it? 

 _Craig, bro, I know what you're thinking,_ Ashby had said over coffee a week or two back. _But t_ _he world will not explode, River and Hazel and Briar will not become insta-strippers, your house will not burn down, if you take some time to take care of_ yourself _._

 _Haha, bro, come on. I'm fine. All cool,_ Craig had said.

 _Your eyes are sunken and you've slurped at your empty cup three times,_ Ashby said, not impressed. True, Craig had been up late helping Briar with her science homework, then up at three thirty for the gym, because he had an early meeting with one of his distributors...

Ashby glanced down, obviously thinking...something, then reached out a hand and squeezed Craig's wrist. Craig had not been prepared for butterflies.

 _I know you're the unstoppable Craig Cahn,_ Ashby said kind of quietly.  _But I'm pretty sure you still need to fucking_ sleep.

When was the last time anybody had ever bothered to see if Craig was okay? 

Craig needs to talk to someone. Ashby's out. Briar and Hazel are not options. River wouldn't remember the conversation, but might be a little short on advice. His parents are great, and if he needs to decide quickly between sativa versus indica, he'll call them. Anything else, Craig's on his own.

That leaves only one person.

On the plus side, she gives great advice. 

On the down side, it's not a conversation he really wants to have with his ex-wife. 

Oh, well. What the heck. It's not like he can steam his upholstery  _twice in one day._ That'd be, like, crazy. 

He dials her number. She picks up after two rings; good, she must be back at her hotel. She's in New York for a conference. 

"Hey Craig."

"Hey, Smash. Girls are fine. I'm ah...calling cause I have a little...uh, problem."

"You sound  _uncertain_ ," Smashley says, delighted. "Oh, this is bound to be good. What's the deets?"

"Well. Um. I think I might...have met someone," Craig says quickly, wanting to get past this part of the conversation. "I'm sorry if that's-"

"No, no..." Smashley says, a little too casually. "It's, ah, fine. I want you to meet someone.  At least my brain does. Heart and or pussy wants to gouge someone's eyes out, but that's not fair to you." 

"Well. Uh. It's someone I knew a long time ago." 

"Hm. Is it Janet? Because Briar and Hazel have been telling me about her, and I ran her credit, and babe, you could do better."

"It's not Janet." God, it isn't Janet. Janet undresses him with her eyes so obviously even  _River_ is weirded out by it. "And you  _ran her credit?_ "

"I've run her off before, I'm prepared to run her off again," Smashley says grimly, and Craig realizes that unless he wants Janet to end up in a federal prison on trumped-up charges (tempting as that is) he'd better head Smashley off,  _quick._

"It's not Janet," he says gently. Smashley makes that little growling noise she makes when a target escapes her grasp.

"Hm. Is it that blue-haired bint from the coffee shop who always gives you a free upgrade? I'm a public figure, Craig, I can't have my ex dating Ani DiSkanko."

"It is also not Lily, who is just a genuinely nice person, Smash." 

"Grow up, Cahn," Smashley scoffs. "And don't keep me guessing. There's gotta be at least a couple of thousand heterosexual women between the ages of sixteen and sixty in town who want on your hog. This could take all day."

"I. Ah," Craig's mouth is suddenly dry. It's always dry, he does keto, but now it's  _super extra dry_. "I never said it was a woman."

Silence.

More silence.

Really kind of a lot of silence. Craig can hear Smashley moving around, hears the sound of a cupboard opening. She curses, quietly. 

"Smash...?" Craig says tentatively. 

"I am sorry to report that there isn't anywhere  _near_ enough liquor in my minibar for me to properly deal with this conversation," Smashley says, businesslike.

"It's, ah, kind of weird to me too."

"It's Ashby, isn't it," Smashley says with a despairing laugh. "Oh my god. It's totally Ashby."

"Wha - Are you - how - what-"

"Oh come on, Cahn. For like, the last three months it's all  _Ashby_ this and  _Ashby_ that and  _Ashby said the funniest thing today._ I feel like I should say I saw this coming, but I absolutely _the fuck_ did not see this coming." 

It's Craig's turn to be silent. He's glad that Smashley can't see his face, because he's bright red. 

"So," Smashley says. "So."

"I'm really...confused," Craig says. 

"I can understand that," Smashley says. "I'm kind of confused slash upset, because I feel like I wasted a major opportunity somewhere, because watching you with a dude would have been  _hot as shit_ when we were together. Someone a bit more Ryan Reynolds than Ashby, by preference, but what the hell."

"I don't know what I'm feeling. Just that it's...something."

“So let’s see if I can cut to the chase here, since my time is worth sixteen hundred dollars an hour: you think you’ve got a big, throbbing broner for Ashby, huh?” Smashley says, and Craig can hear clinking noises he figures is probably her emptying the entire contents of her hotel minibar into a glass. He doesn’t like how much she drinks, these days. She’s not his wife anymore, and she doesn’t do it in front of the girls, but still. He doesn’t like it.  

“I...think I was happier before the word ‘broner’ was a thing?” Craig says.

“Don’t argue with me, it costs twenty-seven dollars a minute.”

"Sorry ma'am."

"What is it about Ashby? As opposed to like, every other man and woman in Maple Bay?"

"He's funny, he's kind in a really, um, complicated way?" A little bit like Smashley, come to think of it. Why, oh why, did he think of it. Don't think that again, Craig. 

(Ashby's also small and bad tempered and filthy-mouthed like Smashley and oh my god Craig sort of wants to die.)

"Uhuh?"

"He's...he's a good dad. And I don't know. I feel like I would be...enough for him? The way I wasn't-" and Craig clamps his mouth shut on the end of that sentence.

Smashley makes an odd little huffing noise into the phone. She's hurt.

"Aw, shit, Smashley, you know I didn't-"

"It's fine," Smashley says. "It's fine. I...there's times I don't understand why you don't hate me." 

What...? Craig is amazed. She's the smartest person he's ever met, but she can be so dumb about some things. "Smash, how could I hate you? You're the best."

It had hurt, of course. Hurt a lot. Things weren't great, the last few years, they'd gotten out of synch somewhere along the line, and he was hurting her and she was hurting him and Smashley was the one to say, enough. They'd tried counselling, but it had come down to the fact that Smashley was moving to New York to work for an up-and-coming firm and Craig wanted to go back to Maple Bay, didn't want to raise the girls in a big city. 

Practical, and amicable. Best for both of them. But...god, it had hurt. He worked so hard, did so much, and he still wasn't right for the only person who mattered to him. It wasn't her fault and it wasn't his either, but...

"Nevermind," Smashley says. "We've been over this. Over it and over it. Look, if you want Ashby...Craig. Go grab him by his skinny shoulders and french him like a horny exchange student. Go  _get him_."

"We're going camping, soon," Craig says.

"Wow, you're gonna go full Brokeback Mountain, huh? Suuuuuuuch a cliche."

"Never saw it."

"Ashby hates camping. Man, he  _must_ be hot for you."

Craig goes red again. Somehow, Smashley senses it. Possibly because she is a sorceress. 

"And, let me guess. You need me to take the girls?" Smashley asks, sounding amused. Which is rarely a good sign, but Craig pushes through.

"Now that you mention it..."

"You do realize that I am allowed to give you shit until the day you die about recruiting your ex-wife into your gay intrigue, right?" Smashley says. "I mean, I might tell this story next time I get interviewed by the  _New York Times."_

"So you'll help?" Craig asks, hopefully.

"Yes, I'll help," Smashley says. "I've got two weekends from now off. Now, Craig, get off the phone, because I have a lot of new information to bleach out of my brain."

"It's three thirty," Craig notes before he can stop himself.

"Next time you're calling me for advice about your love life, call after five," Smashley snaps.

"Will do." Craig replies, giving up. 

"I do love you. Even though you're an idiot." 

"I love you too, even though you're a genius."

" _Ciao_ , babe," Smashley says, before she sniggers again. "Give Ashby a kiss for me."

"I will not," Craig says. The first few are gonna be all for him, dang it.  _Mine mine mine._ They hang up.

River's making noise. Craig hoofs it to her room, savoring the way she brightens as she looks at him. That's another thing that never gets old.

"I think that went really well, River," Craig says, giving River a thumbs up, hearing Briar and Hazel coming up the gravel walkway to the front door. 

"Mlemb!" She replies as Craig picks her up, doing a diaper check. Still looking good.

"I'm gonna remember you said that, when you start dating," Craig replies, before hustling himself and River to the kitchen. He has carrot sticks to chop and cheese sticks to peel. The girls will be hungry. 


End file.
